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PREVIEW — When  artist  Ed  Valigursky  introduced  his  spherical 
moon  shuttle-ships  in  the  May  (1954)  issue,  one  of  the  scenes 
offered  such  unusual  possibilities  as  a cover  we  asked  him  to  do  it 
in  full  color.  The  scene  is  that  of  a shuttle-ship  discharging  its 
cargo  on  the  moon  and  it  will  appear  on  the  next  (October)  Issue 
of  IF.  It  Is  reproduced  here  in  black  on  a blue  tint — but  you  should 
see  it  in  full  color!  It's  the  most  colorful  and  effective  moon  action 
illustration  we've  seen  in  a long,  long  time.  Don't  miss  it! 


WORLDS  of  SCIENCE  FICTION 

AUGUST  1955 
All  Stories  New  and  Complete 


Editor:  JAMES  L.  QUINN 

Assist.  Editors:  EVE  WULFF,  ROBERT  W.  GREENE 
Art  Editor:  ED  VALIGURSKY 


I SHORT  NOVEL 

s 

I BIRTHRIGHT  by  April  Smith  16 

i NOVELETTES 

s 

I BLEEDBACK  by  Winston  Marks  60 

I THE  MOLD  OF  YANCY  by  Philip  K.  Dick  7B 

I 

I SHORT  STORIES 

I FRANCHISE  by  Isaac  Asimov  2 

I THE  ETHICATORS  by  Willard  Marsh  55 

I THE  PATRIOT  by  Chorles  L.  Fontenoy  96 

I ECOLOGY  ON  ROLLINS  ISLAND  by  Varley  Lang  106 

3 

S 

1 FEATURES 

I WORTH  CITING  54 

I WHAT  IS  YOUR  SCIENCE  I.Q.?  77 

I SCIENCE  BRIEFS  118 


I COVER:  I 

I By  Kenneth  Rossi,  illustrating  "Bleedback"  | 

3 E 

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiimii 


IF  is  published  bi-monthly  by  Quinn  Publishing  Company,  Inc.  Volume  5,  No.  5. 
Copyr»ht  1955  by  Quinn  Publishing  Co.,  Inc.  Office  of  publication,  8 Lord  Street, 
Buffalo,  New  York.  Entered  as  Second  Class  Matter  at  Post  Office,  Buffalo,  New 
York.  Subscription  $3.50  for  12  issues  in  U.S.  and  Possessions;  Canada  $4  for  12 
issues;  elsewhere  ^.50.  Allow  four  weeks  for  change  of  address.  All  stories  appear^ 
ing  in  this  marazine  are  fiction;  any  similarity  to  actual  persons  is  coincidentaL 
Not  responsible  tor  unsolicited  artwork  or  manuscripts.  35c  a copy.  Printed  in  U.S. A. 

EDITORIAL  AND  BUSINESS  OFFICES,  KINGSTON,  NEW  YORK 


Next  issue  on  sale  August  I2th 


BY  ISAAC  ASIMOV 

FRANCHISE 

It  was  a frightening  thing  to  happen  to  a person;  the  responsi- 
bility was  just  too  great.  But  Norman  Muller  couldn’t  back 
out.  Multivac  had  chosen  him,  and  the  entire  nation  waited  . . . 


2 


Ififiiliiinil 


Illustrated  by  Paul  Orban 


Linda,  aged  lO,  was  the  only 
^one  of  the  family  who  seemed 
to  enjoy  being  awake. 

Norman  Muller  could  hear  her 
now  through  his  own  drugged,  un- 
healthy coma.  (He  had  finally 
managed  to  fall  asleep  an  hour 
earlier  but  even  then  it  was  more 
like  exhaustion  than  sleep.) 

She  was  at  his  bedside  now, 
shaking  him.  “Daddy,  Daddy,  wake 
up.  Wake  up!” 

He  suppressed  a groan.  “All 
right,  Linda.” 

“But,  Daddy,  there’s  more 
policemen  around  than  any  time! 
Police  cars  and  everything!” 


Norman  Muller  gave  up  and  rose 
blearily  to  his  elbows.  The  day  was 
beginning.  It  was  faintly  stirring 
toward  dawn  outside,  the  germ  of 
a miserable  gray  that  looked  about 
as  miserably  gray  as  he  felt.  He 
could  hear  Sarah,  his  wife,  shuf- 
fling about  breakfast  duties  in  the 
kitchen.  His  father-in-law,  Mat- 
thew, was  hawking  strenuously  in 
the  bathroom.  No  doubt  Agent 
Handley  was  ready  and  waiting  for 
him. 

This  was  the  day. 

Election  day! 

To  begin  with,  it  had  been  like 


3 


every  other  year.  Maybe  a little 
worse,  because  it  was  a Presiden- 
tial year,  but  no  worse  than  other 
Presidential  years  if  it  came  to  that. 

The  politicians  spoke  about  the 
guh-reat  electorate  and  the  vast 
electuh-ronic  intelligence  that  was 
its  servant.  The  press  analyzed  the 
situation  with  industrial  computers 
(the  New  York  Times  and  the  St. 
Louis  Post-Dispatch  had  their  own 
computers)  and  were  full  of  little 
hints  as  to  what  would  be  forth- 
coming. Commentators  and  col- 
umnists pin-pointed  the  crucial 
state  and  county  in  happy  contra- 
diction to  one  another. 

The  first  hint  that  it  would  not 
be  like  every  other  year,  was  when 
Sarah  Muller  said  to  her  husband 
on  the  evening  of  October  4 (with 
Election  Day  exactly  a month  off), 
“Cantwell  Johnson  says  that  In- 
diana will  be  the  state  this  year. 
He’s  the  fourth  one.  Just  think, 
our  state  this  time.” 

Matthew  Hortenweiler  took  his 
fleshy  face  from  behind  the  paper, 
stared  dourly  at  his  daughter  and 
growled,  “Those  fellows  are  paid 
to  tell  lies.  Don’t  listen  to  them.” 
“Four  of  them,  Father,”  said 
Sarah,  mildly.  “Tliey  all  say  In- 
diana.” 

“Indiana  is  a key  state,  Mat- 
thew,” said  Norman,  just  as  mildly, 
“on  account  of  the  Hawkins-Smith 
Act  and  this  mess  in  Indianapolis. 
It—” 

Matthew  twisted  his  old  face 
alarmingly  and  rasped  out,  “No 
one  says  Bloomington  or  Monroe 
County,  do  they?” 

“Well — ” said  Norman. 

Linda,  whose  little  point-chin 

4 


face  had  been  shifting  from  one 
speaker  to  the  next,  said  pipingly, 
“You  going  to  be  voting  this  year. 
Daddy?” 

Norman  smiled  gently  and  said, 
“I  don’t  think  so,  dear.” 

But  this  was  in  the  gradually 
growing  excitement  of  an  October 
in  a Presidential  Election  Year  and 
Sarah  had  led  a quiet  life  with 
dreams  for  her  companions.  She 
said,  longingly,  “Wouldn’t  that  be 
wonderful,  though?” 

“If  I voted?”  Norman  Muller 
had  a small,  blonde  mustache  that 
had  given  him  a debonair  quality 
in  the  young  Sarah’s  eyes,  but 
which,  with  gradual  graying,  had 
declined  merely  to  lack  of  dis- 
tinction. His  forehead  bore  deepen- 
ing lines  bom  of  uncertainty  and, 
in  general,  he  had  never  seduced 
his  clerkly  soul  with  the  thought 
that  he  was  either  born  great  or 
would  under  any  circumstances 
achieve  greatness.  He  had  a wife, 
a job  and  a little  girl  and  except 
under  extraordinary  conditions  of 
elation  or  depression  was  inclined 
to  consider  that  to  be  an  adequate 
bargain  struck  with  life. 

So  he  was  a little  embarrassed 
and  more  than  a little  uneasy  at 
the  direction  his  wife’s  thoughts 
were  taking.  “Actually,  my  dear,” 
he  said,  “there  are  two  hundred 
million  people  in  the  country,  and 
with  odds  like  that,  I don’t  think 
we  ought  to  waste  our  time  won- 
dering about  it.” 

His  wife  said,  “Why,  Norman, 
it’s  no  such  thing  like  two  hundred 
million  and  you  know  it.  In  the 
first  place,  only  people  between  20 
and  60  are  eligible  and  it’s  always 

ISAAC  ASIMOV 


men,  so  that  puts  it  down  to  may- 
be fifty  million  to  one.  Then,  if  it’s 
really  Indiana — ” 

“Then  it’s  about  one  and  a quar- 
ter million  to  one.  You  wouldn’t 
want  me  to  bet  in  a horse  race 
against  those  odds,  now,  would 
you?  Let’s  have  supper.” 

Matthew  muttered  from  behind 
his  newspaper,  “Damned  foolish- 
ness.” 

Linda  asked  again,  “You  going 
to  be  voting  this  year,  Daddy?” 
Norman  shook  his  head  and  they 
all  adjourned  to  the  dining  room. 

By  OCTOBER  20,  Sarah’s  ex- 
citement was  rising  rapidly. 
Over  the  coffee,  she  announced 
that  Mrs.  Schultz,  having  a cousin 
who  was  the  secretary  of  an  As- 
semblyman, said  that  all  the  “smart 
money”  was  on  Indiana. 

“She  says  President  Villers  is 
even  going  to  make  a speech  at 
Indianapolis.” 

Norman  Muller,  who  had  had  a 
hard  day  at  the  store,  nudged  the 
statement  with  a raising  of  eye- 
brows and  let  it  go  at  that. 

Matthew  Hortenweiler,  who  was 
chronically  dissatisfied  with  Wash- 
ington, said,  “If  Villers  makes  a 
speech  in  Indiana,  that  means  he 
thinks  Multivac  will  pick  Arizona. 
He  wouldn’t  have  the  guts  to  go 
closer,  the  mushhead.” 

Sarah,  who  ignored  her  father 
whenever  she  could  decently  do  so, 
said,  “I  don’t  know  why  they  don’t 
announce  the  state  as  soon  as  they 
can,  and  then  the  county  and  so 
on.  Then  the  people  who  were 
eliminated  could  relax.” 


“If  they  did  anything  like  that,” 
pointed  out  Norman,  “the  politi- 
cians would  follow  the  announce- 
ments like  vultures.  By  the  time  it 
was  narrowed  down  to  a township, 
you’d  have  a Congressman  or  two 
at  every  street-comer.” 

Matthew  narrowed  his  eyes  and 
brushed  angrily  at  his  sparse,  gray 
hair,  “They’re  vultures,  anyhow. 
Listen — ” 

Sarah  murmured,  “Now,  Fa- 
ther— ” 

Matthew’s  voice  rumbled  over 
her  protest  without  as  much  as  a 
stumble  or  hitch.  “Listen,  I was 
around  when  they  set  up  Multivac. 
It  would  end  partisan  politics,  they 
said.  No  more  voter’s  money  wasted 
on  campaigns.  No  more  grinning 
nobodies  high-pressured  and  ad- 
vertising-campaigned into  Con- 
gress or  the  White  House.  So  what 
happens?  More  campaigning  than 
ever,  only  now  they  do  it  blind. 
They’ll  send  guys  to  Indiana  on 
account  of  the  Hawkins-Smith  Act 
and  other  guys  to  California  in 
case  it’s  the  Joe  Hammer  situation 
that  turns  crucial.  I say,  wipe  out 
all  that  nonsense.  Back  to  the  good, 
old—” 

Linda  asked,  suddenly,  “Don’t 
you  want  Daddy  to  vote  this  year, 
Grandpa?” 

Matthew  glared  at  the  young 
girl.  “Never  you  mind  now.”  He 
turned  back  to  Norman  and  Sarah. 
“There  was  a time  I voted. 
Marched  right  up  to  the  polling 
booth,  stuck  my  fist  on  the  levers 
and  voted.  There  was  nothing  to 
it.  I just  said:  This  fellow’s  my 
man  and  I’m  voting  for  him. 
That's  the  way  it  should  be.” 


FRANCHISE 


5 


Linda  said  excitedly,  “You  voted, 
Grandpa?  You  really  did?” 

Sarah  leaned  forw^ird  quickly 
to  quiet  what  might  easily  become 
an  incongruous  story  drifting  about 
the  neighborhood.  “It’s  nothing, 
Linda.  Grandpa  doesn’t  really 
mean  voted.  When  he  was  a little 
boy,  they  had  something  they 
called  voting.  Everyone  did  that 
kind  of  voting,  Grandpa,  too,  but 
it  wasn’t  really  voting.” 

Matthew  roared,  “It  wasn’t 
when  I was  a little  boy.  I was  22 
and  I voted  for  Langley  and  it  was 
real  voting.  My  vote  didn’t  count 
for  much,  maybe,  but  it  was  as 
good  as  anyone  else’s.  Anyone  else’s. 
And  no  Multi  vac  to — ” 

Norman  interposed.  “All  right, 
Linda,  time  for  bed.  And  stop  ask- 
ing questions  about  voting.  When 
you  grow  up,  you’ll  understand 
all  about  it.” 

He  kissed  her  with  antiseptic 
gentleness  and  she  moved  reluc- 
tantly out  of  range  under  maternal 
prodding  and  a promise  that  she 
might  watch  the  bedside  video  till 
9:15,  if  she  was  prompt  about  the 
bathing  ritual. 

Linda  said,  “Grandpa,”  and 
stood  with  her  chin  down  and  her 
hands  behind  her  back  until  his 
newspaper  lowered  itself  to  the 
point  where  shaggy  eyebrows  and 
eyes,  nested  in  fine  wrinkles, 
showed  themselves.  It  was  Friday, 
October  31. 

He  said,  “Yes?” 

Linda  came  closer  and  put  both 
her  forearms  on  one  of  the  old 
man’s  knees  so  that  he  had  to  dis- 
card his  newspaper  altogether. 

6 


She  said,  “Grandpa,  did  you 
really  once  vote?” 

He  said,  “You  heard  me  say  I 
did,  didn’t  you?  Do  you  think  I tell 
fibs?” 

“N — no,  but  Mamma  says  every- 
body voted  then.” 

“So  they  did.” 

“But  how  could  they?  How  could 
everybody  vote?” 

Matthew  stared  at  her  solemnly, 
then  lifted  her  and  put  her  on  his 
knee. 

He  even  moderated  the  tonal 
qualities  of  his  voice.  He  said,  “You 
see,  Linda,  till  about  forty  years 
ago,  everybody  always  voted.  Say 
we  wanted  to  decide  who  was  to 
be  the  new  President  of  the  United 
States.  The  Democrats  and  Repub- 
licans would  both  nominate  some- 
one and  everybody  would  say  who 
they  wanted.  When  Election  Day 
was  over,  they  would  count  how 
many  people  wanted  the  Democrat 
and  how  many  wanted  the  Repub- 
lican. Whoever  had  more  votes 
was  elected.  You  see?” 

Linda  nodded  and  said,  “How 
did  all  the  people  know  who  to 
vote  for?  Did  Multivac  tell  them?” 
Matthew’s  eyebrows  hunched 
down  and  he  looked  severe.  “They 
just  used  their  own  judgment,  girl.” 
She  edged  away  from  him  and 
he  lowered  his  voice  again,  “I’m 
not  angry  at  you,  Linda.  But,  you 
see,  sometimes  it  took  all  night  to 
count  what  everyone  said  and  peo- 
ple were  impatient.  So  they  in- 
vented special  machines  which 
could  look  at  the  first  few  votes 
and  compare  them  with  the  votes 
from  the  same  places  in  previous 
years.  That  way  the  machine  could 

ISAAC  ASIMOV 


compute  how  the  total  vote  would 
be  and  who  would  be  elected.  You 
see?” 

She  nodded.  “Like  Multivac.” 
“The  first  computers  were  much 
smaller  than  Multivac.  But  the 
machines  grew  bigger  and  they 
could  tell  how  the  election  would 
go  from  fewer  and  fewer  votes. 
Then,  at  last,  they  built  Multivac 
and  it  can  tell  from  just  one  voter.” 
Linda  smiled  at  having  reached 
a familiar  part  of  the  story  and 
said,  “That’s  nice.” 

Matthew  frowned  and  said,  “No, 
it’s  not  nice.  I don’t  want  a ma- 
chine telling  me  how  I would  have 
voted  just  because  some  joker  in 
Milwaukee  says  he’s  against  higher 
tariffs.  Maybe  I want  to  vote 
cockeyed  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
it.  Maybe  I don’t  want  to  vote. 
Maybe — ” 

But  Linda  had  wriggled  from  his 
knee  and  was  beating  a retreat. 

She  met  her  mother  at  the  door. 
Her  mother,  who  was  still  wearing 
her  coat  and  had  not  even  had 
time  to  remove  her  hat,  said 
breathlessly,  “Run  along,  Linda. 
Don’t  get  in  mother’s  way.” 

Then  she  said  to  Matthew  as 
she  lifted  her  hat  from  her  head 
and  patted  her  hair  back  into 
place,  “I’ve  been  at  Agatha’s.” 
Matthew  stared  at  her  censo- 
riously and  did  not  even  dignify 
that  piece  of  information  with  a 
grunt  as  he  groped  for  his  news- 
paper. 

Sarah  said,  as  she  unbuttoned  her 
coat,  “Guess  what  she  said?” 
Matthew  flattened  out  his  news- 
paper for  reading  purposes  with  a 
sharp  crackle  and  said,  “Don’t 

FRANCHISE 


much  care.” 

Sarah  said,  “Now,  Father — ” 
But  she  had  no  time  for  anger. 
The  news  had  to  be  told  and  Mat- 
thew was  the  only  recipient  handy. 
So  she  went  on,  “Agatha’s  Joe  is 
a policeman,  you  know,  and  he 
says  a whole  truckload  of  secret 
service  men  came  into  Blooming- 
ton last  night.” 

“They’re  not  after  me.” 

“Don’t  you  see.  Father?  Secret 
service  agents,  and  it’s  almost  elec- 
tion time.  In  Bloomington!’^ 

“Maybe  they’re  after  a bank 
robber.” 

“There  hasn’t  been  a bank  rob- 
bery in  town  in  ages  . . . Father, 
you’re  hopeless.” 

She  stalked  away. 

Nor  did  Norman  Muller  receive 
the  news  with  noticeably  greater 
excitement. 

“Now,  Sarah,  how  did  Agatha’s 
Joe  know  they  were  secret  service 
agents,”  he  asked,  calmly.  “They 
wouldn’t  go  around  with  identi- 
fication cards  pasted  on  their  fore- 
heads.” 

But  by  next  evening,  with  No- 
vember a day  old,  she  could  say 
triumphantly,  “It’s  just  everyone 
in  Bloomington  that’s  waiting  for 
someone  local  to  be  the  voter.  The 
Bloomington  News  as  much  as  said 
so  on  video.” 

Norman  stirred  uneasily.  He 
couldn’t  deny  it,  and  his  heart  was 
sinking.  If  Bloomington  was  really 
to  be  hit  by  Multivac’s  lightning,  it 
would  mean  newspapermen,  video 
shows,  tourists,  all  sorts  of — strange 
upset.  Norman  liked  the  quiet  rou- 
tine of  his  life  and  the  distant  stir 

7 


of  politics  was  getting  uncomfort- 
ably close. 

He  said,  “It*s  all  rumor.  Nothing 
more.” 

“You  wait  and  see,  then.  You 
just  wait  and  see.” 

As  things  turned  out,  there  was 
very  little  time  to  wait,  for  the 
door-bell  rang  insistently,  and  when 
Norman  Muller  opened  it  and 
said,  “Yes?”  a tall,  grave-faced 
man  said,  “Are  you  Norman  Mul- 
ler?” 

Norman  said,  “Yes”  again,  but 
in  a strange  dying  voice.  It  was 
not  difficult  to  see  from  the  stran- 
ger’s bearing  that  he  was  one  car- 
rying authority  and  the  nature  of 
his  errand  suddenly  became  as  in- 
evitably obvious  as  it  had,  until  the 
moment  before,  been  unthinkably 
impossible. 

The  man  presented  credentials, 
stepped  into  the  house,  closed  the 
door  behind  him  and  said  ritualis- 
tically,  “Mr.  Norman  Muller,  it 
is  necessary  for  me  to  inform  you 
on  the  behalf  of  the  President  of 
the  United  States  that  you  have 
been  chosen  to  represent  the 
American  electorate  on  Tuesday, 
November  4,  2008.” 


Norman  MULLER  managed, 
with  difficulty,  to  walk  un- 
aided to  his  chair.  He  sat  there, 
white-faced  and  almost  insensible, 
while  Sarah  brought  water,  slapped 
his  hands  in  panic  and  moaned  to 
her  husband  between  clenched 
teeth,  “Don’t  be  sick,  Norman. 
DonH  be  sick.  They’ll  pick  some- 
one else.” 

When  Norman  could  manage  to 

8 


talk,  he  whispered,  “I’m  sorry, 
sir. 

The  secret  service  agent  had  re- 
moved his  coat,  unbuttoned  his 
jacket  and  was  sitting  at  esise  on 
the  couch. 

“It’s  all  right,”  he  said,  and  the 
mark  of  officialdom  seemed  to  have 
vanished  with  the  formal  an- 
nouncement and  leave  him  simply 
a large  and  rather  friendly  man. 
“This  is  the  sixth  time  I’ve  made 
the  announcement  and  I’ve  seen 
all  kinds  of  reactions.  Not  one  of 
them  was  the  kind  you  see  on  the 
video.  You  know  what  I mean?  A 
holy,  dedicated  look,  and  a charac- 
ter who  says:  Tt  will  be  a great 
privilege  to  serve  my  country.’ 
That  sort  of  stuff.”  The  agent 
laughed  comfortingly. 

Sarah’s  accompanying  laugh 
held  a trace  of  shrill  hysteria. 

The  agent  said,  “Now  you’re  go- 
ing to  have  me  with  you  for  a 
while.  My  name  is  Phil  Handley. 
I’d  appreciate  it  if  you  call  me 
Phil.  Mr.  Muller  can’t  leave  the 
house  any  more  till  Election  Day. 
You’ll  have  to  inform  the  depart- 
ment store  that  he’s  sick,  Mrs.  Mul- 
ler. You  can  go  about  your  busi- 
ness for  a while  but  you’ll  have  to 
agree  not  to  say  a word  about  this. 
Right,  Mrs.  Muller?” 

Sarah  nodded  vigorously.  “No, 
sir.  Not  a word.” 

“All  right.  But,  Mrs.  Muller,” 
Handley  looked  grave,  “we’re  not 
kidding  now.  Go  out  only  if  you 
must  and  you’ll  be  followed  when 
you  do.  I’m  sorry  but  that’s  the 
way  we  must  operate.” 

“Followed?” 

“It  won’t  be  obvious.  Don’t  wor- 
ISAAC  ASIMOV 


ry.  And  it’s  only  for  two  days  till 
the  formal  announcement  to  the 
nation  is  made.  Your  daughter — ” 

“She’s  in  bed,”  said  Sarah, 
hastily. 

“Good.  She’ll  have  to  be  told  I’m 
a relative  or  friend  staying  with 
the  family.  If  she  does  find  out  the 
truth,  she’ll  have  to  be  kept  in 
the  house.  Your  father  had  better 
stay  in  tlfe  house  in  any  case.” 

“He  won’t  like  that,”  said  Sarah. 

“Can’t  be  helped.  Now,  since 
you  have  no  odiers  living  with 
you — ” 

“You  know  all  about  us,  ap- 
parently,” whispered  Norman. 

“Quite  a bit,”  agreed  Handley. 
“In  any  case,  those  are  all  my  in- 
structions to  you  for  the  moment. 
I’ll  try  to  co-operate  as  much  as 
I can  and  be  as  little  of  a nuisance 
as  possible.  The  government  will 
pay  for  my  maintenance  so  I won’t 
be  an  expense  to  you.  I’ll  be  re- 
lieved each  night  by  someone  who 
will  sit  up  in  this  room,  so  there 
will  be  no  problem  about  sleeping 
accommodations.  Now,  Mr.  Mul- 
ler—” 

“Sir?” 

“You  can  call  me  Phil,”  said 
the  agent  again.  “The  purpose  of 
the  two  days  preliminary  to  formal 
announcement  is  to  get  you  used 
to  your  position.  We  prefer  to  have 
you  face  Multivac  in  as  normal  a 
state  of  mind  as  possible.  Just  re- 
lax and  try  to  feel  this  is  all  in  a 
day’s  work.  Okay?” 

“Okay,”  said  Norman,  and  then 
shook  his  head  violently.  “But  I 
don’t  want  the  responsibility.  Why 
me?” 

“All  right,”  said  Handley,  “let’s 
FRANCHISE 


get  that  straight  to  begin  with. 
Multivac  weighs  all  sorts  of  known 
factors,  billions  of  them.  One  factor 
isn’t  known,  though,  and  won’t  be 
known  for  a long  time.  That’s  the 
reaction  pattern  of  the  human 
mind.  All  Americans  are  subjected 
to  molding  pressure  of  what  other 
Americans  do  and  say,  to  the  things 
that  are  done  to  him  and  the  things 
he  does  to  others.  Any  American 
can  be  brought  to  Multivac  to 
have  the  bent  of  his  mind  surveyed. 
From  that  the  bent  of  all  other 
minds  in  the  country  can  be  esti- 
mated. Some  Americans  are  better 
for  the  purpose  than  others  at  some 
given  time,  depending  upon  the 
happenings  of  diat  year.  Multivac 
picked  you  as  most  representative 
this  year.  Not  the  smartest,  or  the 
strongest,  or  the  luckiest,  but  just 
the  most  representative.  Now  we 
don’t  question  Multivac,  do  we?” 

“Couldn’t  it  make  a mistake?” 
asked  Norman. 

Sarah,  who  listened  impatiently, 
interrupted  to  say,  “Don’t  listen  to 
him,  sir.  He’s  just  nervous,  you 
know.  Actually,  he’s  very  well-read 
and  he  always  follows  politics  very 
closely.” 

Handley  said,  “Multivac  makes 
the  decisions,  Mrs.  Muller.  It 
picked  your  husband.” 

“But  does  it  know  everything?” 
insisted  Norman,  wildly.  “Can’t  it 
have  made  a mistake?” 

“Yes,  it  can.  There’s  no  point  in 
not  being  frank.  In  1993,  a selected 
Voter  died  of  a stroke  two  hours 
before  it  was  time  for  him  to  be 
notified.  Multivac  didn’t  predict 
that;  it  couldn’t.  A Voter  might 
be  mentally  unstable,  morally  un- 

9 


suitable,  or,  for  that  matter,  dis- 
loyal. Multivac  can’t  know  every- 
thing about  everybody  until  he’s 
fed  all  the  data  there  is.  That’s  why 
alternate  selections  are  always  held 
in  readiness.  I don’t  think  we’ll  be 
using  one  this  time.  You’re  in  good 
health,  Mr.  Muller,  and  you’ve 
been  carefully*  investigated.  You 
qualify.” 

Norman  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands  and  sat  motionless, 

“By  tomorrow  morning,  sir,”  said 
Sarah,  “he’ll  be  perfectly  all  right. 
He  just  has  to  get  used  to  it,  that’s 
all.” 

“Of  course,”  said  Handley. 

In  the  privacy  of  their  bed- 
chamber, Sarah  Muller  expressed 
herself  in  stronger  fashion.  The 
burden  of  her  lecture  was,  “So  get 
hold  of  yourself,  Norman.  You’re 
trying  to  throw  away  the  chance 
of  a lifetime.” 

Norman  whispered,  desperately, 
“It  frightens  me,  Sarah.  The  whole 
thing.” 

“For  goodness  sake,  why?  What’s 
there  to  it  but  answering  a question 
or  two?” 

“The  responsibility  is  too  great. 
I couldn’t  face  it.” 

“What  responsibility?  There 
isn’t  any.  Multivac  picked  you.  It’s 
Multivac’s  responsibility.  Everyone 
knows  that.” 

Norman  sat  up  in  bed  in  a sud- 
den access  of  rebellion  and  anguish. 
“Everyone  is  supposed  to  know 
that.  But  they  don’t.  They — ” 

“Lower  your  voice,”  hissed 
Sarah,  icily.  “They’ll  hear  you 
downtown.” 

“They  don’t,”  said  Norman,  de- 


clining quickly  to  a whisper.  “ When 
they  talk  about  the  Ridgely  ad- 
ministration of  1988,  do  they  say 
that  Ridgely  was  corrupt  and  the 
nation  was  foolish  to  elect  him? 
Do  they  say  he  won  them  over  with 
pie-in-the-sky  promises  and  racist 
baloney?  No!  They  talk  about  the 
‘goddam  MacComber  vote’  as 
though  Humphrey  MacComber 
was  the  only  man  who  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it  because  he 
faced  Multivac.  I’ve  said  it  my- 
self— only  now  I think,  the  poor 
guy  was  just  a truck-farmer  who 
didn’t  ask  to  be  picked.  Why  was 
it  his  fault  more  than  anyone  else’s. 
Now  his  name  is  a curse.” 

“You’re  just  being  childish,” 
said  Sarah. 

“I’m  being  sensible.  I tell  you, 
Sarah,  I won’t  accept.  They  can’t 
make  me  vote  if  I don’t  want  to. 
I’ll  say  I’m  sick.  I’ll  say—” 

But  Sarah  had  had  enough. 
“Now  you  listen  to  me,”  she  whis- 
pered in  a cold  fury.  “You  don’t 
have  only  yourself  to  think  about. 
You  know  what  it  means  to  be 
Voter  of  the  Year.  A Presidential 
year  at  that.  It  means  publicity  and 
fame  and,  maybe,  buckets  of 
money — ” 

“And  then  I go  back  to  being 
a clerk.” 

“You  will  not.  You’ll  have  a 
branch  managership  at  the  least 
if  you  have  any  brains  at  all,  and 
you  will  have,  because  I’ll  tell  you 
what  to  do.  You  control  the  kind 
of  publicity  if  you  play  your  cards 
right,  and  you  can  force  Kennell 
Stores,  Inc.  into  a tight  contract 
and  an  escalator  clause  in  connec- 
tion with  your  salary  and  z,  decent 


10 


ISAAC  ASIMOV 


pension  plan.” 

“That’s  not  the  point  in  being 
Voter,  Sarah.” 

“That  will  be  your  point.  If  you 
don’t  owe  anything  to  yourself  or 
to  me — I’m  not  asking  for  myself 
— ^you  owe  something  to  Linda.” 

Norman  groaned. 

“Well,  don’t  you?”  snapped 
Sarah. 

“Yes,  dear,”  murmured  Norman. 

On  November  3,  the  official  an- 
nouncement was  made  and  it  was 
too  late  for  Norman  to  back  out 
even  if  he  had  been  able  to  find 
the  courage  to  make  the  attempt. 

Their  house  was  sealed  off.  Se- 
cret service  agents  made  their  ap- 
pearance in  the  open,  blocking  off 
all  approach. 

At  first  the  telephone  rang  in- 
cessantly, but  Philip  Handley  with 
an  engagingly  apologetic  smile  took 
all  calls.  Eventually,  the  exchange 
shunted  all  calls  directly  to  the  po- 
lice station. 

Noiman  imagined  that  in  that 
way,  he  was  spared  not  only  the 
bubbling  (and  envious?)  congratu- 
lations of  friends,  but  also  the  egre- 
gious pressure  of  salesmen  scenting 
a prospect  and  the  designing 
smoothness  of  politicians  from  all 
over  the  nation.  Perhaps  even 
death  threats  from  the  inevitable 
cranks. 

Newspapers  were  forbidden  to 
the  house  now  in  order  to  keep  out 
weighted  pressure  and  television 
was  gently  but  firmly  disconnected, 
over  Linda’s  loud  protests. 

Matthew  growled  and  stayed  in 
his  room;  Linda,  after  the  first 
flurry  of  excitement,  sulked  and 

FRANCHISE 


whined  because  she  could  not  leave 
the  house;  Sarah  divided  her  time 
between  preparation  of  meals  for 
the  present  and  plans  for  the  fu- 
ture; and  Norman’s  depression 
lived  and  fed  upon  itself. 

And  the  morning  of  Tuesday, 
November  4,  2008,  came  at  last 
and  it  was  Election  Day. 

rr  WAS  EARLY  breakfast,  but 
only  Norman  Muller  ate,  and 
that  mechanically.  Even  a shower 
and  shave  had  not  succeeded  in 
either  restoring  him  to  reality  or 
removing  his  own  conviction  that 
he  was  as  grimy  without  as  he 
felt  grimy  within. 

Handley’s  friendly  voice  did  its 
best  to  shed  some  normality  over 
the  gray  and  unfriendly  dawn. 
(The  weather  prediction  had  been 
for  a cloudy  day  with  prospects 
of  rain  before  noon.) 

Handley  said,  “We’ll  keep  this 
house  insulated  till  Mr.  Muller  is 
back,  but  after  that  we’ll  be  off 
your  necks.”  The  secret  service 
agent  was  in  full  uniform  now,  in- 
cluding side-aums  in  heavily- 
brassed  holsters. 

“You’ve  been  no  trouble  at  all, 
Mr.  Handley,”  simpered  Sarah. 

Norman  drank  through  two  cups 
of  black  coffee,  wiped  his  lips  with 
a napkin,  stood  up  and  said,  hag- 
gardly, “I’m  ready.” 

Handley  stood  up,  too,  “Very 
well,  sir.  And  thank  you,  Mrs. 
Muller,  for  your  very  kind  hos- 
pitality.” 

The  armored  car  purred  down 
empty  streets.  They  were  empty 

n 


even  for  that  hour  of  the  morning. 

Handley  indicated  that  and  said, 
“They  always  shift  traffic  away 
from  the  line  of  drive  ever  since 
the  attempted  bombing  that  nearly 
ruined  the  Leverett  election  of 
’92.” 

When  the  car  stopped,  Norman 
was  helped  oiit  by  the  always 
polite  Handley  into  an  under- 
ground drive  whose  walls  were  lined 
with  soldiers  at  attention. 

He  was  led  into  a brightly  lit 
room,  in  which  three  white-uni- 
formed  men  greeted  him  smilingly. 

Norman  said,  sharply,  “But  this 
is  the  hospital?” 

“There’s  no  significance  to  that,” 
said  Handley,  at  once.  “It’s  just 
that  the  hospital  has  the  necessary 
facilities.” 

“Well,  what  do  I do?” 

Handley  nodded.  One  of  the 
three  men  in  white  advanced  and 
said,  “I’ll  take  over  now,  agent.” 

Handley  saluted  in  an  ofT-hand 
manner  and  left  the  room. 

The  man  in  white  said,  “Won’t 
you  sit  down,  Mr.  Muller?  I’m 
John  Paulson,  Senior  Computer. 
These  are  Samson  Levine  and  Peter 
Dorogobuzh,  my  assistants.” 

Norman  numbly  shook  hands  all 
around.  Paulson  was  a man  of  mid- 
dle height  with  a soft  face  that 
seemed  used  to  smiling  and  a very 
obvious  toupee.  He  wore  plastic- 
rimmed  glasses  of  an  old-fashioned 
cut,  and  he  lit  a cigarette  as  he 
talked.  (Norman  refused  his  offer 
of  one.) 

Paulson  said,  “In  the  first  place, 
Mr.  Muller,  I want  you  to  know 
we  are  in  no  hurry.  We  want  you 
to  stay  with  us  all  day  if  necessary, 

12 


just  so  that  you  get  used  to  your 
surroundings  and  get  over  any 
thought  you  might  have  that  there 
is  anything  unusual  in  this,  any- 
thing clinical,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean.” 

“It’s  all  right,”  said  Norman. 
“I’d  just  as  soon  this  were  over.” 

“I  understand  your  feelings.  Still, 
we  want  you  to  know  exactly  what’s 
going  on.  In  the  first  place,  Mul- 
tivac  isn’t  here.” 

“It  isn’t?”  Somehow  through  all 
his  depression,  he  had  still  looked 
forward  to  seeing  Multivac.  They 
said  it  was  half  a mile  long  and 
three  stories  high,  that  fifty  tech- 
nicians walked  the  corridors  within 
its  structure  continuously.  It  was 
one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world. 

Paulson  smiled.  “No.  It’s  not 
portable,  you  know.  It’s  located  un- 
derground, in  fact,  and  very  few 
people  know  exactly  where.  You 
can  understand  that,  since  it  is  our 
greatest  natural  resource.  Believe 
me,  elections  aren’t  the  only  thing 
it’s  used  for.” 

Norman  thought  he  was  being 
deliberately  chatty,  but  found  him- 
self intrigued  all  the  same.  “I 
thought  I’d  see  it.  I’d  like  to.” 

“I’m  sure  of  that.  But  it  takes  a 
Presidential  order  and  even  then 
it  has  to  be  countersigned  by  Se- 
curity. However,  we  are  plugged 
into  Multivac  right  here  by  beam 
transmission.  What  Multivac  says 
can  be  interpreted  here  and  what 
we  say  is  beamed  directly  to  Mul- 
tivac, so  in  a sense  we’re  in  its 
presence.” 

Norman  looked  about.  The  ma- 
chines within  the  room  were  all 
meaningless  to  him. 


ISAAC  ASIMOV 


“Now  let  me  explain,  Mr.  Mul- 
ler,” Paulson  went  on.  “Multivac 
already  has  most  of  the  information 
it  needs  to  decide  all  the  elections, 
national,  state  and  local.  It  needs 
only  to  check  certain  imponderable 
attitudes  of  mind  and  it  will  use 
you  for  that.  We  can’t  predict  what 
questions  it  will  ask,  but  they  may 
not  make  much  sense  to  you,  or 
even  to  us.  It  may  ask  you  how  you 
feel  about  garbage-disposal  in  your 
town;  whether  you  favor  central 
incinerators.  It  might  ask  you 
whether  you  have  a doctor  of  your 
own  or  whether  you  make  use  of 
National  Medicine,  Inc.  Do  you 
understand?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Whatever  it  asks,  you  answer 
in  your  own  words  in  any  way  you 
please.  If  you  feel  you  must  explain 
quite  a bit,  do  so.  Talk  an  hour,  if 
necessary.” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Now,  one  more  thing.  We  will 
have  to  make  use  of  some  simple 
devices  which  will  automatically 
record  your  blood  pressure,  heart 
beat,  slan  conductivity  and  brain 
wave  pattern  while  you  speak.  The 
machinery  will  seem  formidable, 
but  it’s  all  absolutely  painless.  You 
won’t  even  know  it’s  going  on.  So 
don’t  worry  about  it.” 

The  other  two  technicians  were 
already  busying  themselves  with 
smooth-gleaming  apparatus  on 
oiled  wheels. 

Norman  said,  “Is  that  to  check 
on  whether  I’m  lying  or  not?” 

“Not  at  all,  Mr.  Muller.  There’s 
no  question  of  lying.  It’s  only  a 
matter  of  emotional  intensity.  If 
the  machine  asks  you  your  opinion 

FRANCHISE 


of  your  child’s  school,  you  may  say, 
T think  it  is  overcrowded.’  Those 
are  only  words.  From  the  way  your 
brain  and  heart  and  hormones  and 
sweat  glands  work,  Multivac  can 
judge  exactly  how  intensely  you 
feel  about  the  matter.  It  will  un- 
derstand your  feelings  better  than 
you  yourself.” 

“I  never  heard  of  this,”  said 
Norman. 

“No,  I’m  sure  you  didn’t.  Most 
of  the  details  of  Multivac’s  work- 
ings are  top  secret.  For  instance, 
when  you  leave,  you  will  be  asked 
to  sign  a paper  swearing  that  you 
will  never  reveal  the  nature  of  the 
questions  you  were  asked,  the  na- 
ture of  your  responses,  what  was 
done,  or  how  it  was  done.  The  less 
is  known  about  the  Multivac,  the 
less  chance  of  attempted  outside 
pressures  upon  the  men  who  serv- 
ice it.”  He  smiled,  grimly,  “Our 
lives  are  hard  enough  as  it  is.” 
Norman  nodded.  “I  under- 
stand.” 

“And  now  would  you  like  any- 
thing to  eat  or  drink?” 

“No.  Nothing  right  now.” 

“Do  you  have  any  questions?” 
Norman  shook  his  head. 

“Then  you  tell  us  when  you’re 
ready.” 

“I’m  ready  right  now.” 

“You’re  certain  there’s  nothing 
else  you  want  to  ask?” 

“Quite.” 

Paulson  nodded,  and  raised  his 
hand  in  a gesture  to  the  others. 

They  advanced  with  their  fright- 
ening equipment  and  Norman 
Muller  felt  his  breath  come  a little 
more  quickly  and  his  heart  beat 
more  rapidly  as  he  watched. 

13 


The  ordeal  lasted  nearly 
three  hours,  with  one  short 
break  for  coffee  and  an  embarrass- 
ing session  with  a chamber-pot. 
During  all  this  time,  Norman  Mul- 
ler remained  encased  in  machinery. 
He  was  bone- weary  at  the  close. 

He  thought  sardonically  that  his 
promise  to  reveal  nothing  of  what 
had  passed  would  be  an  easy  one 
to  keep.  Already  the  questions  were 
a hazy  mish-mash  in  his  mind. 

Somehow  he  had  thought  Mul- 
tivac  would  speak  in  a sepulchral, 
superhuman  voice,  resonant  and 
echoing,  but  that,  he  now  decided, 
was  just  an  idea  he  had  from  see- 
ing too  many  television  shows.  The 
truth  was  distressingly  undramatic. 
The  questions  were  slips  of  a kind 
of  metallic  foil  patterned  with  nu- 
merous punctures.  A second  ma- 
chine converted  the  pattern  into 
words  and  Paulson  read  the  words 
to  Norman,  then  gave  him  the 
question  and  let  him  read  it  for 
himself. 

Norman’s  answers  were  taken 
down  by  a recording  machine, 
played  back  to  Norman  for  con- 
firmation, with  emendations  and 
added  remarks  also  taken  down. 
All  that  was  fed  into  a pattern- 
making instrument  and  that,  in 
turn,  was  radiated  to  Multivac. 

The  one  question  Norman  could 
remember  at  the  moment  was  an 
incongruously  gossipy:  “What  do 
you  think  of  the  price  of  eggs?” 
He  had  answered,  blankly,  “I 
don’t  know  the  price  of  eggs.” 
Now  it  was  over,  and  gently  they 
removed  the  electrodes  from  vari- 
ous portions  of  his  body,  un- 
wrapped the  pulsating  band  from 

14 


his  upper  arm,  moved  the  machin- 
ery away. 

He  stood  up,  drew  a deep,  shud- 
dering breath  and  said,  “Is  that 
all?  Am  I through?” 

“Not  quite,”  Paulson  hurried  to 
him,  smiling  in  reassuring  fashion. 
“We’ll  have  to  ask  you  to  stay 
another  hour.” 

“Why?”  asked  Norman,  sharply. 
“It  will  take  that  long  for  Mul- 
tivac to  weave  the  new  data  into 
the  trillions  of  items  it  has.  Thou- 
sands of  elections  are  concerned, 
you  know.  It’s  very  complicated. 
And  it  may  be  that  an  odd  contest 
here  or  there,  a comptrollership  in 
Phoenix,  Arizona,  or  some  council 
seat  in  Wilkes-Barre,  Pennsylvania, 
may  be  in  doubt.  In  that  case, 
Multivac  may  be  compelled  to  ask 
you  a deciding  question  or  two.” 
“No,”  said  Norman.  “I  won’t  go 
through  this  again.” 

“It  probably  won’t  happen,” 
Paulson  said,  soothingly.  “It  rarely 
does.  But  just  in  case,  you’ll  have 
to  stay.”  A touch  of  steel,  just  a 
touch,  entered  his  voice.  “You  have 
no  choice,  you  know.  You  must.” 
Norman  sat  down  wearily.  He 
shrugged. 

Paulson  said,  “We  can’t  let  you 
read  a newspaper,  but  if  you’d  care 
for  a murder  mystery,  or  if  you’d 
like  to  play  chess,  or  if  there’s  any- 
thing we  can  do  for  you  to  help 
pass  the  time,  I wish  you’d  men- 
tion it.” 

“It’s  all  right.  I’ll  just  wait.” 
They  ushered  him  into  a small 
room  just  next  to  the  one  in  which 
he  had  been  questioned.  He  let 
himself  sink  into  a plastic  covered 
armchair  and  closed  his  eyes. 

ISAAC  ASIMOV 


As  well  as  he  could,  he  must 
wait  out  this  final  hour. 

He  sat  perfectly  still  and  slowly 
the  tension  left  him.  His  breathing 
grew  less  ragged  and  he  could  clasp 
his  hands  without  being  quite  so 
conscious  of  the  trembling  of  his 
fingers. 

Maybe  there  would  be  no  ques- 
tions. Maybe  it  was  all  over. 

If  it  were  over,  then  the  next 
thing  would  be  torchlight  proces- 
sions and  invitations  to  speak  at 
all  sorts  of  functions.  The  Voter 
of  the  Year! 

He,  Norman  Muller,  ordinary 
clerk  of  a small  department  store  in 
Bloomington,  Indiana,  who  had 
neither  been  bom  great  nor 
achieved  greatness  would  be  in 
the  extraordinary  position  of  hav- 
ing had  greatness  thrust  upon  him. 

The  historians  would  speak 
soberly  of  the  Muller  Election  of 
2008.  That  would  be  its  name,  the 
Muller  Election! 

The  publicity,  the  better  job, 
the  flash  flood  of  money  that  in- 
terested Sarah  so  much,  occupied 
only  a corner  of  his  mind.  It  would 
all  be  welcome,  of  course.  He 
couldn’t  refuse  it.  But  at  the  mo- 
ment something  else  was  begin- 
ning to  concern  him. 

A latent  patriotism  was  stirring. 
After  all,  he  was  representing  the 
entire  electorate.  He  was  the  focal 


point  for  them.  He  was,  in  his  own 
person,  for  this  one  day,  all  of 
America! 

The  door  opened,  snapping  him 
to  open-eyed  attention.  For  a mo- 
ment, his  stomach  constricted.  Not 
more  questions! 

But  Paulson  was  smiling.  “That 
will  be  all,  Mr.  Muller.” 

“No  more  questions,  sir?” 

“None  needed.  Everything  was 
quite  clearcut.  You  will  be  es- 
corted back  to  your  home  and  then 
you  will  be  a private  citizen  once 
more.  Or  as  much  so  as  the  public 
will  allow.” 

“Thank  you.  Thank  you.”  Nor- 
man flushed  and  said,  “I  wonder 
— Who  was  elected?” 

Paulson  shook  his  head.  “That 
will  have  to  wait  for  the  official 
announcement.  The  rules  are  quite 
strict.  We  can’t  even  tell  you.  You 
understand.” 

“Of  course.  Yes.”  Norman  felt 
embarrassed. 

“Secret  Service  will  have  the 
necessary  papers  for  you  to  sign.” 

“Yes.”  Suddenly,  Norman  Mul- 
ler felt  proud.  It  was  on  him  now 
in  full  strength.  He  was  proud. 

In  this  imperfect  world,  the 
sovereign  citizens  of  the  first  and 
greatest  Electronic  Democracy  had, 
through  Norman  Muller  (through 
him! ) exercised  once  again  its  free, 
untrammeled  franchise.  • • • 


A new  moral  outlook  is  called  for  in  which  submission  to  the  powers  of 
nature  is  replaced  by  respect  for  what  is  best  in  man.  It  is  where  this 
respect  is  lacking  that  scientific  technique  is  dangerous. — Bertrand  Russell 

FRANCHISE  15 


BIRTHRIGHT 


Why  was  Cyril  Kirk,  highest  man  in  his  class,  assigned  to  such 
an  enigmatic  place  as  Nemar?  Of  what  value  was  it — if  any- 


thing?  No  one  could  tell  him 
believed  them  . . . 


BY  APRI 


CYRIL  KIRK’S  first  sight  of  the 
planet  from  the  spaceship  did 
nothing  to  abate  the  anger  seething 
within  him.  He  stared  at  it  in  dis- 
gust, glad  there  were  no  other  pas- 
sengers left  to  witness  his  arrival. 

All  during  the  long  trip,  he  had 
felt  their  curious  stares  and  excited 
whispers  everywhere  he  passed,  and 
he  had  felt  a small  wave  of  relief 
whenever  a large  batch  of  them 


the  answer.  He  wouldnt  have 


L SMITH 


had  been  unloaded  on  some  planet 
along  the  way.  None  of  them  had 
come  this  far — which  was  hardly 
surprising,  he  thought;  the  last  of 
them  had  been  taken  off  two-thirds 
of  the  way  to  Nemar.  He  was  very 
glad  to  see  them  go,  though  by  that 
time  they  had  stopped  making  their 
cautious,  deferential  attempts  to 
draw  him  into  conversation  and 
elicit  some  clue  about  his  mission 


16 


Illustrated  by  Kelly  Preas 


and  destination. 

He  had  let  them  wonder.  He 
knew  that  his  aloofness  was  being 
taken  as  snobbishness,  but  he  was 
past  caring.  They  all  recognized 
that  he  was  a Planetary  Adminis- 
trator by  the  blazing  gold  insignia 
on  the  dark  uniform,  insignia  call- 
ing for  awe  and  respect  all  over  the 
galaxy.  They  guessed  that  this  was 
his  first  appointment,  but  the  thing 
that  really  aroused  their  curiosity 
was  the  bitter,  angry  look  that  went 
with  what  they  considered  his  ar- 
rogant reserve. 

Since  polite  efforts  at  conversa- 
tion by  the  braver  or  more  confi- 
dent among  the  company  were  met 
with  icy  monosyllables  that  cut  off 
further  attempts,  they  were  left 
with  a wide  range  of  controversy. 
Some  of  them  held,  though  they 
had  never  actually  seen  a Planetary 
Administrator  before  in  the  flesh, 
that  all  PA’s  were  like  this.  They 
argued  that  the  long,  grueling  years 
of  study,  the  ascetic,-  disciplined  life 
from  childhood,  and  the  constant 
pressure  of  competition,  knowing 
that  only  a small  percentage  would 
finally  make  the  grade,  made  them 
kind  of  inhuman  by  the  time  they 
finished.  Besides,  they  were  near- 
geniuses or  they  wouldn’t  have 
been  selected  in  the  first  place — 
and  everybody  knows  geniuses  are 
sort  of  peculiar. 

One  of  the  bolder  and  more 
beautiful  girls  on  board  had  been 
argued  into  making  a carefully 
planned  attempt  to  draw  informa- 
tion out  of  him,  and  bets  had  been 
placed  on  the  results.  She  was  eager 
enough  to  try  her  hand  at  this  rich 
prize,  and  her  self-confidence  was 

18 


justified  by  a long  trail  of  broken 
hearts  in  high  places,  but  the  at- 
tempt came  to  nothing.  Kirk  was 
aware  of  her  efforts  and  aware  that 
in  another  mood  he  would  have 
appreciated  her  charm,  but  he  felt 
too  sick  and  miserable  to  respond. 

Remembering  her  piquant, 
laughing  face  later  in  his  cabin, 
Kirk  thought  morosely  of  the  long 
train  of  girls  he  had  known  in  the 
past.  Many  of  them  had  been  love- 
ly— a fledgling  PA  was  considered 
a highly  desirable  date,  even 
though  the  chances  were  always 
that  he  wouldn’t  make  it  in  the 
end.  But  Kirk  had  always  been 
filled  with  an  iron  determination 
that  he  was  going  to  make  it  in  the 
end,  and  this  meant  no  distractions. 
If  he  began  to  feel  he  might  get 
really  emotionally  entangled  with  a 
girl,  he  stopped  seeing  her  at  once. 
He  saw  them  seldom  enough,  any- 
way. The  regulations  of  the  PA  In- 
stitute gave  him  a fair  amount  of 
free  time,  but  the  study  require- 
ments made  the  apparent  freedom 
meaningless. 

How  hard  he’d  worked  for  the 
day  he’d  be  wearing  this  uniform, 
he  thought  bitterly.  How  proud 
and  happy  he’d  thought  he’d  feel 
wearing  it!  And  now,  instead,  here 
he  was,  practically  hiding  in  his 
cabin,  hoping  nobody  would  dis- 
cover the  name  of  his  destination 
and  guess  the  reason  for  the  humil- 
iated rage  that  was  still  coursing 
through  him. 

He’d  gone  over  the  interview  with 
Carlin  Ross  a hundred  times  since 
the  trip  started,  and  he  wasn’t  any 
nearer  to  making  sense  out  of  it 
than  when  he  began  . . . 

APRIL  SMITH 


He’d  entered  Ross’s  office  for  the 
interview  in  which  he  would  be 
awarded  his  post,  full  of  confidence 
and  pride.  The  final  examination 
results  posted  in  the  main  lobby 
were  headed  by  his  name.  He  knew 
that,  because  of  his  good  record  and 
general  popularity,  he  had  been 
watched  with  special  interest  by  the 
teachers  and  staff  for  some  time; 
and  he  looked  forward  to  being 
awarded  a particularly  desirable 
planet,  in  spite  of  its  being  his  first 
post. 

Technical  ability  and  sound 
training  in  administration  had  long 
ago  been  decided  upon  as  more  im- 
portant than  practical  experience, 
as  mankind  began  to  sicken  of  the 
bungling  of  political  appointees. 
The  far-flung  planets  that  had  been 
colonized  or  held  an  intelligent, 
humanoid  population  were  so  nu- 
merous that  even  an  experienced 
Planetary  Administrator  could 
know  very  little  about  each  one. 
Only  someone  brought  up  on  a 
planet  could  have  a detailed  knowl- 
edge of  it,  and  it  was  a basic  prem- 
ise of  the  Galactic  Union  that 
governors  with  a common  upbring- 
ing and  training  on  Terra  were 
necessary  to  keep  the  varied  parts 
of  the  empire  from  splitting  off  and 
becoming  alienated  from  the  rest. 

Ross  was  one  of  the  half-dozen 
men  in  the  top  echelon  governing 
the  galaxy  and  its  warring  com- 
ponents. His  official  title  was  Ga- 
lactic Coordinator,  and  one  of  his 
minor  duties  was  the  supervision 
of  the  Institute  of  Training  for 
Planetary  Administration,  which 
had  been  home  to  Kirk  for  so  long. 
Although  he  was  the  Institute’s 

BIRTHRIGHT 


official  head,  he  was  too  busy  to  be 
seen  in  its  halls  more  than  rarely, 
but  Kirk  had  had  several  brief  talks 
with  him  and  one  long  one.  He  had 
the  feeling  that  Ross  had  a special 
interest  in  him,  and  this  had  added 
to  his  anticipation  on  the  fatal  day. 

As  he  entered  the  room,  Ross 
looked  up,  his  blue  eyes  friendly 
and  alert  in  the  weathered,  tanned 
face.  “Hello,  Kirk,”  he  said.  As  al- 
ways, the  simple  warmth  of  his 
smile  threw  Kirk  off  guard.  It  had 
never  failed  to  surprise  him  the  few 
times  he  had  seen  Ross.  In  this 
place  of  dedicated,  serious  men,  of 
military  crispness  of  speech,  of  stiff- 
ly erect  carriage,  Ross’s  relaxed 
body  and  quiet,  open  expression 
seemed  startlingly  out  of  place.  Ex- 
cept for  the  alertness  and  intelli- 
gence of  the  eyes,  he  looked  like  a 
country  farmer  who  had  wandered 
in  by  mistake.  Kirk,  and  his  friends, 
had  more  than  once  wondered  how 
such  an  anomaly  had  risen  to  the 
high  position  of  Galactic  Coordi- 
nator. 

However,  if  his  manner  left  you 
puzzled,  it  also  made  you  feel  sur- 
prisingly comfortable,  and  Kirk  had 
felt  relaxed  and  happy  as  Ross  mo- 
tioned him  to  a chair.  Nothing  pre- 
pared him  for  the  shock  that  was  to 
come. 

He  remembered  the  apparent 
casualness  with  which  Ross  had 
spoken.  “I’m  sending  you  to  Ne- 
mar.” 

For  a moment  Kirk  felt  blank. 
The  name  did  not  register.  His 
private  speculations  had  centered 
on  the  question  of  whether  he 
would  be  sent  to  a thriving,  pleas- 
ant, habitable  planet  or  to  one  of 

19 


those  whose  bleak  surface  contained 
some  newly  discovered,  highly  val- 
uable mineral  and  whose  struggling 
colonists  lived  under  pressurized 
domes.  Either  type  could  have  held 
the  chance  to  work  up  to  the  ga- 
lactic eminence  and  power  he  had 
set  his  heart  on.  He  had  been  over 
and  over  the  list  of  planets  that 
were  due  to  receive  new  PA’s 
(there  was  a rotational  system  of 
five  years,  with  an  additional  five 
years  made  optional),  and  he  had  a 
private  list  of  those  which,  as  the 
star  graduate  of  his  class,  he  hoped 
he  might  draw.  Nemar  was  not 
among  them. 

His  face  stayed  blank  for  a min- 
ute as  he  searched  his  memory  for 
the  name,  and  as  vague  bits  of  in- 
formation filtered  through  to  him, 
his  eyes  widened  in  disbelief.  “But, 
sir — ” He  fumbled  for  words. 
“That’s  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
galaxy.” 

Ross’s  voice  was  quiet.  “Yes,  it’s 
a long  way.” 

“But  there’s  nothing  on  it!” 

Ross  sounded  a little  amused. 
“There  are  some  very  nice  people 
on  it — the  natives  are  of  the  same 
species  as  we  are,  though  they  look 
a little  different.  That  means  the 
air  is  breathable  without  aids.  It’s 
quite  a pleasant  planet.” 

“That’s  not  what  I mean,  sir.  I 
mean  there’s  nothing  of  any  value 
— no  minerals,  no  artifacts,  no  val- 
uable plant  or  animal  products.” 
He  searched  his  memory  for  what 
little  he  could  remember  about  Ne- 
mar from  classes.  He  recalled  that 
the  planet  had  been  discovered  only 
forty  years  ago  by  a Survey  ship 
that  had  gone  off  course  far  toward 


the  outer  rim  of  the  galaxy.  It  had 
been  incorporated  into  the  Galactic 
Union  because  it  was  considered 
dangerous  to  leave  any  inhabited 
planet  free  of  control;  but  it  had 
not  been  considered  a valuable  ad- 
dition. It  was  far  off  the  established 
trade  routes,  and  seemed  to  contain 
nothing  worth  the  expense  of  trans- 
porting it.  “The  culture  is  very 
primitive,  isn’t  it?”  Kirk  asked,  half 
thinking  aloud. 

“It  is  so  considered,”  Ross  an- 
swered. 

The  reply  struck  Kirk  as  odd. 
A sudden  hope  filled  him.  Maybe 
something  new  had  been  discov- 
ered about  the  place,  possibly  some- 
thing that  only  Ross  and  a few  of 
the  top  command  knew  about.  He 
threw  a sharp  glance  at  Ross’s  face, 
but  it  told  him  nothing.  “I  don’t 
remember  too  much  about  the  place 
from  class,”  he  ventured. 

Ross  rose,  and  with  his  incon- 
gruously quick,  lazy  grace  strode  to 
the  filing  cabinet  along  the  wall, 
pulling  out  documents  and  pam- 
phlets. He  plumped  them  in  a pile 
in  front  of  Kirk.  “Most  of  the 
factual  information  we  have  is  in 
these.  You  can  try  the  library,  too, 
but  I doubt  if  you’ll  find  anything 
more.”  He  added  a book  to  the 
pile.  “This  covers  their  language. 
You’ll  have  two  months  of  intensive 
instruction  in  it  before  you  go.  You 
were  always  good  in  your  language 
structure  courses,  so  I doubt  that 
you’ll  have  any  trouble  with  it. 
You’ll  have  another  two  weeks  to 
learn  the  stuff  in  these  documents, 
and  two  more  weeks  to  rest  or  do 
whatever  you  like  before  you  leave.” 
He  resumed  his  chair.  “You’re  luck- 


20 


APRIL  SMITH 


ier  than  some  of  the  others.  The 
boy  who  got  Proserpine  will  have 
a stack  of  books  up  to  there  to 
absorb.”  He  gestured  toward  the 
ceiling. 

At  the  mention  of  Proserpine, 
Kirk’s  brown  eyes  darkened.  Proser- 
pine had  been  recently  discovered, 
too,  but  that  was  all  it  had  in  com- 
mon with  Nemar.  Its  inhospitable 
surface  held  vast  amounts  of  a 
highly  valuable  fuel  ore,  and  it  had 
been  one  of  the  places  on  his  list. 
He  wondered  who  was  going  there, 
his  insides  suddenly  twisting  with 
envy.  He  tried  to  keep  his  voice 
even.  “I  don’t  understand  why  I’m 
being  sent  to  Nemar.”  He  searched 
for  words.  After  all,  he  couldn’t 
exactly  mention  his  graduating  first 
and  his  record.  “Is  there  something 
I don’t  know  about?  Has  some- 
thing valuable  been  discovered  that 
hasn’t  been  publicized,  or — ” He 
waited  hopefully. 

Ross’s  answer  was  flat.  “No, 
there’s  nothing  there  that  can  be 
transported  that’s  worth  transport- 
ing.” 

Kirk  felt  despair  surging  through 
him,  then  suddenly  changing  to 
sharp  anger.  “I’ve  worked  hard.  I 
have  a good  record.  Why  are  you 
giving  me  this — this  lemon?  Why 
don’t  you  give  it  to  whoever  gradu- 
ated lowest,  or  better  still  to  some 
older  PA  who  bungled  things  some- 
where, but  not  quite  enough  to  be 
retired!”  His  face  was  burning  with 
rage.  Somewhere  inside  he  felt 
shocked  at  himself  for  speaking  to 
a Coordinator  this  way ; at  the  same 
time  he  felt  a violent  urge  to  carry 
it  farther  and  sock  Ross  in  the  nose. 
His  body  was  shaking  . . . 

birthright 


Remembering  the  scene  now  as 
he  watched  Nemar  swing  closer, 
Kirk  felt  the  anger  again,  time 
hadn’t  dimmed  it  at  all.  Ross  must 
have  perceived  his  fury,  but  he  had 
shown  no  signs  of  it.  Looking  as 
friendly  as  ever,  he  had  told  him 
mildly  that  he  did  not  consider 
Nemar  a “lemon”,  that  he  had  ex- 
cellent reasons  for  sending  him 
there,  but  he  preferred  not  to  tell 
him  what  they  were.  He  wanted 
him  to  discover  them  for  himself 
after  he  arrived.  The  rest  of  the 
interview  had  concerned  itself 
mainly  with  practical  information, 
most  of  which  Kirk  had  scarcely 
heard  through  his  fog  of  emotion. 

His  endless  speculations  since 
then  had  gotten  him  nowhere.  He 
had  dredged  out  of  his  memory 
every  incident  that  might  reveal 
some  trait  for  which  he  was  being 
discreetly  given  a back  seat.  He  re- 
called a roommate  who  had  said  he 
was  going  to  become  a living  ma- 
chine if  he  kept  it  up,  and  no 
machine  had  the  right  to  have  ju- 
risdiction over  people.  But  Jere  had 
flunked  out  along  the  way,  like 
most  candidates  who  had  an  atti- 
tude like  that.  He  went  over  the 
time  he  had  been  called  to  Ross’s 
office  and  gently  rebuked  for  work- 
ing men  under  him  on  a project  too 
hard.  “I  don’t  ask  anything  from 
them  I don’t  ask  of  myself,”  he 
had  protested. 

“I  know,”  Ross  had  answered, 
“and  I respect  that.  But  you  work 
that  hard  from  choice.”  Then  he 
had  nodded  in  dismissal. 

Kirk  had  puzzled  over  these  and 
other  incidents,  searching  for  a clue, 
but  found  nothing.  All  his  probing 

21 


in  a more  optimistic  direction  led  to 
blind  alleys  also.  The  documents 
on  Nemar,  all  the  information  he 
could  dig  up,  confirmed  Ross’s 
statement  that  the  planet  held 
nothing  of  commercial  value. 

The  planet,  to  judge  by  what  he 
had  read,  was  a pleasant  place,  ap- 
parently very  pretty,  with  heavy 
vegetation  and  a warm,  temperate 
climate,  and  the  natives  were  hos- 
pitable and  friendly.  But  all  this 
held  very  little  comfort  for  him  and 
did  little  to  assuage  the  sense  of 
angry  humiliation  that  had  made 
him  seek  isolation  from  the  other 
passengers. 

He  could  see  the  planet  more 
clearly  now  as  the  ship  began  to 
angle  into  an  orbit,  preparatory  to 
sending  out  the  smaller  landing 
ship  which  would  take  him  down. 
Hastily  he  reviewed  in  his  mind 
once  more  the  few  facts  he  knew 
about  the  place,  and  shaped  his 
tongue  to  the  unfamiliar  sounds  of 
the  native  language.  He  fought 
down  the  feeling  of  humiliation, 
and  straightened  his  shoulders.  Aft- 
er all,  to  these  people,  he  would 
he  the  most  important  person  on  the 
planet.  If  he  was  to  be  a big  frog 
in  a small  puddle,  he  was  still  su- 
preme administrator  here,  and  he 
had  no  intention  of  letting  them 
know  his  arrival  signified  a disgrace 
to  him. 


ROM  THE  airlock  of  the  land- 
ing ship,  Kirk  looked  out  on  a 
cleared  plain.  In  the  foreground 
a group  of  natives  were  gathered 
to  greet  him,  and  a scattering  of 
dark  uniforms  among  them  indi- 


cated the  officials  who  would  make 
up  the  Terran  part  of  his  staff.  As 
the  natives  approached  him,  he 
noted  the  green-gold  hair  and  the 
slightly  greenish  tinge  to  their  skin, 
for  which  his  studies  had  prepared 
him. 

Nothing  in  his  studies,  however, 
had  prepared  him  for  the  extraor- 
dinary grace  and  beauty  of  these 
people. 

They  were  dressed,  men  and 
women  alike,  in  a simple  fold  of 
bright-colored  cloth  circling  their 
body  from  the  waist  and  reaching 
a third  of  the  way  to  their  knees. 
Kirk  noted,  with  a slight  sense  of 
shock,  that  the  women  wore  noth- 
ing above  the  waist  except  for  a 
strand  of  woven  reeds,  interlaced 
with  shells  and  flowers,  which  fell 
loosely  to  their  breasts.  In  these 
brief  and  primitive  garments,  the 
natives  bore  themselves  with  such 
imperious  grace  and  assurance  that 
for  a moment  Kirk  felt  as  if  his 
role  had  been  abruptly  reversed — 
as  if  instead  of  being  the  powerful 
representative  of  a great  civilization 
to  a backward  people,  he  were  the 
humble  primitive  waiting  for  their 
acceptance. 

One  of  the  older  natives  stepped 
forward  from  the  rest,  his  palm 
outstretched,  shoulder  high,  in 
greeting.  “Welcome  to  Nemar,”  he 
said,  his  glance  steady  and  gracious 
on  Kirk’s  face. 

Kirk  recognized  the  words  of  the 
native  language  with  surprise.  The 
clear,  musical  quality  of  the  native’s 
speech  made  his  own  words,  harsh 
and  grating  by  comparison,  sound 
like  a different  language,  as  he  re- 
plied. “Thank  you.  I am  very 


22 


APRIL  SMITH 


happy  to  be  here.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  realized  that  the 
lie  had  for  a moment  felt  almost 
like  truth.  For  a moment  he  won- 
dered if  the  planet’s  apparent  prim- 
itiveness was  deceptive  and  if  its 
simplicity  concealed  a highly  de- 
veloped culture.  But  even  as  the 
hope  surged  through  him,  he  re- 
membered Ross’s  clear  and  definite 
statement  to  the  contrary.  Besides, 
there  would  be  no  point  in  keeping 
a thing  like  that  secret  from  the 
rest  of  the  galaxy,  even  if  it  could 
be  done.  Such  a culture,  moreover, 
would  certainly  have  things  of 
value  to  trade. 

As  these  thoughts  coursed 
through  his  mind,  one  of  the  Ter- 
rans  stepped  forward  from  the 
crowd.  The  insignia  on  his  uniform 
were  the  same  as  his  own,  and  he 
realized,  with  a surge  of  curiosity, 
that  this  must  be  his  predecessor. 

The  man  reached  forward  to 
shake  his  hand.  “Hello.  The  name’s 
Jerwyn.”  His  tanned  face  was  open 
and  friendly,  and  reminded  Kirk 
curiously  of  someone;  he  couldn’t 
remember  who.  “Glad  to  see  you.” 

I’ll  bet  you  are,  Kirk  thought: 
your  gain,  my  loss.  “Greetings  from 
Terra,”  he  replied,  somewhat  stiff- 
ly. “Cyril  Kirk.”  He  tried  to  keep 
his  vague  disapproval  of  Jerwyn’s 
breezy  informality  out  of  his  voice. 
It  was  hard  to  realize  this  man  was 
also  a Planetary  Administrator.  He 
seemed  to  have  lost  completely  the 
look  of  authority  that  was  the  life- 
long mark  of  the  PA  graduate. 

After  the  various  introductions 
and  a short  period  of  conversation, 
Kirk  found  himself  seated  beside 

birthright 


Jerwyn  in  the  small  ground  vehicle 
which  was  to  take  him  to  his  head- 
quarters. Jerwyn  immediately  re- 
sumed the  standard  Galactic-Ter- 
ran  language,  which  he  had 
dropped  during  the  introductions. 
“As  soon  as  I show  you  around  a 
bit.  I’ll  be  off  on  the  landing  ship 
you  came  in.  I wonder  how  Terra 
will  seem  after  all  this  time.” 

“Five  years  is  a long  time,”  Kirk 
ventured. 

“Ten.” 

Kirk  stared  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment. “You  took  the  optional  five 
years!  Why  in  heaven  would  any- 
one— ” He  broke  off  suddenly.  The 
question  might  be  one  Jerwyn 
would  not  care  to  answer.  He  threw 
him  a speculative  glance,  wonder- 
ing why  he  had  been  sent  here  and 
whether  he,  too,  was  bitter.  Maybe 
a poor  record,  or  something  in  his 
past  he  didn’t  care  to  go  back  to 
. . . ? That  didn’t  fit  in  his  own 
case — but  then  there  was  no  know- 
ing what  did  fit  in  his  own  case. 
Jerwyn  had  an  alert,  perceptive 
look  that  indicated  considerable  in- 
telligence, but  still  he  somehow 
looked  inadequate.  Some  quality  an 
Administrator  should  have  was 
lacking  . . . dignity?  drive? 

Jerwyn’s  voice  interrupted  his 
thoughts.  “Beautiful,  isn’t  it?” 

The  groundcar  had  left  the  plain 
and  was  entering  a heavily  wooded 
section.  For  the  first  time,  Kirk  took 
a good  look  at  his  surroundings. 
Some  of  the  trees  and  plants  were 
very  like  those  he  had  seen  in 
parks  at  home.  Still,  there  was  a 
definitely  alien  feel  to  it  all.  The 
trees  were  low  and  wide  and  had 
peculiar  contours,  different  from 

23 


those  of  trees  on  Terra,  and  their 
flowering  foliage  came  in  odd  sizes 
and  colors.  The  sky  wasn’t  quite 
the  blue  he  was  used  to,  and  the 
shapes  of  the  clouds  were  different. 
He  noticed  for  the  first  time  a 
heady,  pungent  perfume  carried  on 
the  breeze,  that  was  both  pleasant 
and  stimulating.  It  came,  perhaps, 
from  the  wide-petaled  flowers  in 
oddly  shimmering  colors  that 
clustered  thickly  everywhere. 

“Yes,  it’s  beautiful,”  he  agreed, 
“but — ” The  feeling  of  despair  and 
frustration  welled  up  in  him  again. 
The  warmth  he  sensed  in  Jerwyn 
made  him  suddenly  long  to  blurt 
out  the  whole  story.  He  controlled 
himself  with  difficulty,  as  he  turned 
toward  him.  “It’s  pretty  enough.  It 
might  make  a good  vacation  resort 
if  it  weren’t  on  the  edge  of  no- 
where.” His  pent-up  emotion  ex- 
ploded as  he  spoke.  “But  five  years 
in  this  hole!  I’d  feel  a hell  of  a lot 
better  if  I were  looking  at  some 
rocky,  barren  landscape  with  some 
mines  on  it — with  something  of 
value  on  it — ^with  a name  some- 
body’d  heard  of,  where  you  could 
hope  to  get  somewhere.  I don’t 
want  to  waste  five  years  here!”  He 
paused  for  breath,  staring  angrily 
at  the  lush  landscape.  “And  for 
that  matter,  life  on  one  of  those 
planets  where  you  live  under  domes, 
with  a sealed-in  atmosphere,  is 
probably  a lot  more  civilized  and 
convenient  than  in  this  primitive 
jungle.” 

Jerwyn  nodded  slowly,  an  un- 
spoken compassion  in  his  face.  “I 
know  how  you’re  feeling.”  He 
paused.  “And  it  does  seem  pretty 
primitive  here  at  first — no  auto- 

24 


matic  precipitrons  for  cleaning  your 
clothes,  natural  foods  instead  of 
synthetics,  no  aircars,  no  automatic 
dispensers  for  food  or  drinks  or 
clothes;  none  of  a hundred  things 
you  take  for  granted  till  you  don’t 
have  them.  But  you  get  used  to  it. 
There  are  things  to  make  up — ” 
He  broke  off  as  the  car  began  to 
descend  into  a valley.  “Look!”  His 
voice  held  an  odd  tone  of  affection. 
“There’s  your  new  home.” 

Kirk  gazed  downward  at  the  set- 
tlement nested  in  the  valley  below 
them.  He  fished  in  his  pocket  for  a 
magnascope  to  bring  the  view 
nearer  and  stared  curiously,  as  the 
lens  adjusted  to  the  distance.  He 
picked  out  groups  of  buildings,  low 
units  of  some  coarse,  natural  ma- 
terial, widely  spaced.  This  was  the 
largest  city  on  the  planet,  he  knew, 
but  it  seemed  to  be  little  more 
than  a village.  It  was  undoubtedly 
primitive — ^very  primitive.  Remem- 
bering the  magnificent  high  build- 
ings of  Terra,  he  was  filled  with 
sudden  homesickness  for  the  speed- 
ing sidewalks  crowded  with  people, 
the  skylanes  humming  with  aircars. 

Turning  the  magnascope  here 
and  there,  he  kept  his  gaze  trained 
on  the  town  beneath  him,  studying 
it  now  in  more  detail.  Slowly,  some 
of  his  depression  began  to  leave 
him,  and  he  felt  a strange  sense 
of  warmth  begin  to  take  its  place. 
He  stepped  up  the  power  of  the 
glass  till  he  could  see  the  inhabi- 
tants walking  in  the  streets.  Like 
the  natives  who  had  met  him  at 
the  landing  ship,  they  walked  with 
a beautiful,  easy  grace,  a sumptuous 
ease  that  seemed  somehow  almost  a 
rebuke  of  his  own  stiffly  correct 

APRIL  SMITH 


military  posture.  They  gave  an  im- 
pression of  combined  leisure  and 
vitality. 

Gradually,  as  he  watched,  an  odd 
feeling  of  nostalgia  began  to  stir 
in  him,  an  old,  childish  longing.  He 
remembered  suddenly  a dream  he 
had  had  years  ago,  in  which  he  had 
run  laughing  through  green  mead- 
ows with  a lovely  girl.  He  had 
fought  against  waking  from  it  and 
returning  to  his  desk  piled  high 
with  books  and  his  ascetically  fur- 
nished room. 

He  blinked  his  eyes  and  put 
down  the  magnascope.  “Rather  at- 
tractive, in  a way,”  he  said  grudg- 
ingly to  Jerwyn.  He  settled  back 
slowly  into  his  seat. 

“Just  the  same,”  he  added,  an- 
noyed at  himself  for  his  sentimental 
lapse,  “how  have  you  managed  to 
stand  it  all  this  time?  I still  can’t 
figure  how  I came  to  get  it  in  the 
neck  like  this.”  Abruptly,  he 
plunged  into  the  words  he  had 
been  holding  back,  telling  the  whole 
story  of  his  confusion  to  Jerwyn. 

He  rationalized  to  himself  that 
perhaps  Jerwyn  could  help  him 
solve  the  mystery.  At  least  he  might 
tell  him  how  he  himself  came  to  be 
sent  to  Nemar,  without  his  having 
to  ask  directly;  and  this  might  give 
him  a clue. 

“I’ve  been  over  the  whole  busi- 
ness a million  times,  trying  to  figure 
it  out,”  he  concluded.  “Someb^ody 
with  pull  must  have  had  it  in  for 
me.  But  who?  And  why?  I never 
had  any  real  run-ins  with  Ross.  In 
fact.  I’d  always  thought  he  liked 
me.”  He  scowled.  “Of  course,  he 
gives  practically  everybody  that  im- 
pression. Maybe  he’s  just  a profes- 

BIRTHRIGHT 


sional  glad-hander,  though  he  cer- 
tainly doesn’t  seem  like  it.”  He 
shook  his  head.  “Maybe  that’s  the 
secret  of  his  success;  I never  could 
figure  out  how  he  got  where  he  is. 
He  certainly  doesn’t  seem  typical 
of  the  command.  Oh,  he’s  brilliant 
enough,  but  there’s  a quality  about 
him  I’d  almost  call — weak,  I guess. 
Unsuitable  for  his  post,  anyway. 
He  treats  the  janitor  the  same 
as — ” 

Kirk  stopped  abruptly.  He  sud- 
denly had  the  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion that  had  been  nagging  at  the 
edge  of  his  mind:  it  was  Ross  that 
Jerwyn  reminded  him  of. 

Trying  to  cover  up  his  confusion, 
he  went  on  rapidly,  hoping  Jerwyn 
would  not  notice.  “Anyway,  what- 
ever his  reasons  were,  he’s  played 
me  a dirty  trick,  and  if  there’s  ever 
any  way  I can  pay  him  back  for  it. 
I’ll  do  it.  I’ll  have  five  years  to 
think  about  it.  Me ! The  fair-haired 
boy  of  the  Institute!  On  my  way  to 
the  top!”  His  face  flushed  with  re- 
sentment. “Sent  to  sweat  out  five 
years  in  this  Godforsaken  place 
with  a bunch  of  savages  hardly 
evolved  out  of  the  jungle!”  He 
passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead, 
wiping  off  sweat,  feeling  the  full 
force  of  his  pent-up  anguish  and 
rage  flood  through  him. 

Jerwyn  spoke  very  quickly.  “I 
felt  pretty  much  the  same  way 
when  I was  sent  here.  But  I feel 
differently  now.  I could  try  to  ex- 
plain. But  I don’t  think  it’s  a good 
idea.  I don’t  think  anyone  could 
have  explained  to  me.  This  is  a 
place  you’ve  got  to  live  in;  you 
can’t  be  told  about  it.”  He  shifted 
in  his  seat  as  a small  group  of 

25 


buildings  came  into  view.  “As  for 
Ross — well,  he  was  responsible  for 
my  being  sent  here,  too,  and  I spent 
some  time  when  I first  came,  think- 
ing of  ways  to  cut  his  body  in  little 
pieces  and  throw  them  in  a gar- 
bage pulverizer — but  I wouldn’t 
waste  my  time  if  I were  you.  I 
know  now  he  had  his  reasons.”  As 
he  spoke  the  car  pulled  to  a stop. 
“Well,  here  we  are.  This  is  where 
you’ll  be  living  and  working.” 

Jerwyn  stayed  with  Kirk  while 
he  was  shown  through  various 
buildings.  He  found  most  of  the 
office  buildings  full  of  bright  murals 
and  little  watered  patios,  but  lack- 
ing the  simplest  devices  for  working 
efficiency.  He  was  introduced  to 
various  officials,  Terran  and  Ne- 
marian.  Some  of  the  latter,  to  his 
surprise,  were  women — a rare 
phenomenon  for  a primitive  planet, 
he  remembered  from  his  classes. 

By  the  time  the  touring  was 
over  and  he  had  said  goodbye  to 
Jerwyn,  he  was  too  tired  to  do  more 
than  glance  briefly  at  the  quarters 
to  which  he  was  shown.  Left  alone 
in  his  rooms,  he  took  a quick,  awk- 
ward bath,  too  weary  to  feel  more 
than  a brief  annoyance  at  the  lack 
of  automatic  buttons  for  tempera- 
ture controls,  soaping,  and  drying, 
and  fell  exhausted  on  the  low  bed. 


For  a moment,  as  he  woke, 
Kirk  could  not  remember  where 
he  was.  Drowsiness  mingled  with  a 
sense  of  eeriness  at  the  sound  of 
long  bird-calls  unlike  any  on  Terra 
and  the  unfamiliar  rustling  of 
leaves ; the  rays  from  the  late  iter- 
noon  sun  seemed  too  crimson. 


Then,  as  sleep  fell  from  his  eyes, 
he  remembered.  He  glanced  at  the 
window  above  his  bed  from  which 
the  orange  light  filtered  into  the 
room  and  saw  it  was  completely 
open  to  the  outside  air.  Something 
would  have  to  done  about  that,  he 
thought  grimly,  or  he’d  never  be 
able  to  sleep  with  an  easy  mind. 
There  were  always  people,  sooner 
or  later,  who  hated  you  if  you  had 
power;  or  if  they  didn’t  hate  you, 
they  at  least  wanted  you  out  of 
commission  for  one  reason  or 
another. 

He  sat  up  to  take  a better  look 
at  the  room  he  had  been  too  tired 
to  investigate  before.  There  were 
mats  of  woven  reeds,  and  low 
carved  chests,  and  flowers ; the 
walls  were  clean  and  glimmering, 
and  bare  except  for  a single  picture 
of  two  young  native  children.  He 
got  up  and  walked  over  to  look  at 
it  more  closely.  A boy  of  about 
seven  was  holding  his  arm  out  to  a 
girl,  slightly  younger,  to  help  her 
on  to  the  low,  swaying  branch  on 
which  he  was  sitting.  The  picture 
was  full  of  sunshine  and  green 
leaves  and  happiness,  and  you 
could  feel  the  trusting  softness  of 
her  arms  reaching  up  to  him.  An 
odd  picture,  Kirk  thought.  The 
children  looked  childlike  enough, 
but  the  emotions  looked  adult. 

As  he  looked  at  it,  he  heard  a 
soft,  swishing  sound  in  the  next 
room,  and  stiffened.  There  was  no 
lock  on  the  door,  he  noticed.  Well, 
it  was  time  to  get  up,  anyway.  He 
dressed  hurriedly,  trying  to  remem- 
ber the  layout  of  his  rooms.  Except 
for  the  bathroom,  he  recalled  only 
one  other  room,  a sort  of  arbored 


26 


APRIL  SMITH 


porch,  one  side  completely  open  to 
the  air,  with  a low  table  and  some 
cooking  equipment  at  one  end. 

As  he  opened  the  door,  a faint 
whisk  of  something  made  of  reeds 
went  out  of  sight.  A primitive 
broom,  he  thought,  with  a faint 
sense  of  relief.  Some  servant  was 
tidying  the  house.  He  opened  the 
door  further — and  stared, 

A native  girl  was  standing  before 
him.  She  was  extraordinarily  love- 
ly. The  gold-green  hair  of  her  race 
rippled  and  flowed  in  waves  over 
her  bare  back  and  shoulders  down 
to  the  circlet  of  vermilion  cloth 
girdling  her  thighs.  The  band  of 
small  shells  that  circled  her  throat 
was  netted  with  wide  orange  and 
red  flowers  that  half -hid,  half -dis- 
closed the  firm  naked  breasts.  The 
light  brown,  gold-flecked  eyes  be- 
neath the  gold-green  eyebrows  were 
soft ; so  was  the  tender  mouth,  rose- 
colored  against  the  flawless  skin, 
with  its  undertones  of  faint  green. 
Her  body,  too,  looked  soft  and 
yielding,  but  was  borne  with  im- 
perious grace  that  somehow  dig- 
nified even  the  broom  held  loosely 
now  in  one  delicate  hand. 

Kirk  stared  at  this  vision  of 
beauty,  taken  by  surprise,  and 
found  himself  caught  up  in  sudden 
desire.  She  was  like  something  out 
of  a dream.  He  tried  to  get  hold  of 
himself. 

You’re  just  not  used  to  half-nude 
women,  he  told  himself.  You’re 
used  to  girls  in  uniforms,  crisp, 
businesslike  uniforms.  A wild  sus- 
picion caught  at  the  edge  of  his 
mind.  He  didn’t  know  anything 
about  this  planet,  really — except 
that  there  was  something  he  didn’t 

birthright 


know.  Maybe  they  made  a practice 
of  diverting  their  rulers  with  beau- 
tiful women.  She  certainly  didn’t 
look  like  a servant.  He  smiled  at 
the  thought  that  came  to  him : this 
servant  was  the  first  indication  of 
the  luxury  befitting  a Planetary 
Administrator.  The  thought  en- 
abled him  to  gain  control  of  him- 
self again.  He  regained  a semblance 
of  his  customary  reserved  look. 

“Good  afternoon,”  he  said,  in  the 
native  language. 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

He  hesitated,  then  held  out  his 
own  awkwardly.  Did  one  shake 
hands  with  one’s  servants  here?  He 
wished  he’d  asked  Jerwyn  for  more 
advice  about  protocol. 

She  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it 
lightly  for  a moment.  “I  am 
Nanae.”  Her  voice  was  low  and 
musical.  “I  am  going  to  clean  and 
take  care  of  your  house.” 

She  turned  and  with  exquisite 
precision  gestured  toward  the  low 
table  and  cooking  equipment  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  “I  thought  you 
would  be  waking  soon.  I have  pre- 
pared some  jen  for  you.” 

Jen?  he  thought.  Oh,  yes,  a.  very 
light  stimulant — the  local  variety 
of  tea.  He  walked  over  to  the  low 
table  and  sat  down,  fighting  the 
impulse  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  her.  He  watched  her  as  she 
poured  the  hot  liquid  into  wide 
cups  of  polished  gourd,  her  hair 
radiant  about  her  shoulders.  A stab 
of  longing  shot  through  him.  The 
long  years  of  training  in  the  In- 
stitute paraded  through  his  mind, 
the  years  of  strict  routine,  hard 
work,  ascetic,  bare  rooms,  with 

27 


women  considered  playthings  that 
took  too  much  time  from  needed 
study;  the  only  beauty  was  the 
dream  of  power  among  the  glitter- 
ing stars. 

Well,  he  wasn’t  going  to  give  up 
and  forget  the  dream,  he  told  him- 
self— and  he  wasn’t  going  to  be  led 
astray  by  any  pretty  girls,  particu- 
larly a maid.  Hell,  he  thought  sud- 
denly, maybe  Ross  is  testing  me. 
Maybe  he  picked  the  worst  planet 
in  the  whole  damn  galaxy  to  find 
out  if  I could  do  something  with 
it.  It’s  obvious  if  I can  get  this 
place  on  the  trademaps,  I can 
handle  anything. 

He  looked  speculatively  at  the 
girl  as  she  pushed  the  cup  toward 
him.  He  wondered  how  she  came 
by  her  job.  Did  they  hold  beauty 
contests  here  for  the  honor  of  be- 
ing cleaning  woman  in  the  PA’s 
household?  He  realized  he  was  feel- 
ing more  cheerful.  The  jen  and  the 
soothing  quietness  of  the  girl’s  pres- 
ence were  doing  him  good.  He  felt 
a resurgence  of  his  old  energy  and 
ambition  that  the  interview  with 
Ross  had  quelled  for  so  long. 

“Did  you  work  for  Jerwyn,  too?” 
he  asked.  Yes,  his  voice  was  just 
right,  courteous,  but  not  too  friend- 
ly, he  thought. 

“No,  but  I knew  him.”  She 
looked  at  him  with  an  odd  smile. 
“He  became  one  of  our  best  danc- 
ers.” 

“Dancers!”  Kirk  stared  at  her  in 
amazement.  He  started  to  open  his 
mouth,  then  stopped.  He’d  better 
not  ask  any  more  questions  till  he’d 
had  a chance  to  talk  to  some  Ter- 
rans.  Apparently,  Jerwyn  had  gone 
native.  Maybe  it  was  his  way  of  re- 

28 


belling  against  being  sent  here  in 
the  first  place — and  he’d  let  him- 
self go  so  far  that  he’d  skipped  his 
chance  of  reassignment  at  the  end 
of  the  first  five  years,  afraid  of  the 
problems  of  a new  post  after  be- 
ing a beachcomber  for  so  long. 
That  would  account  for  the  curious 
lack  of  deference  he’d  found  in  all 
these  people.  They  were  friendly 
enough,  but  they  lacked  proper  re- 
spect for  his  position.  You  weren’t 
supposed  to  be  friendly  to  a PA; 
you  were  supposed  to  be  humbly 
polite.  He  recalled  the  respect  and 
awe  he’d  received  on  the  ship. 

As  he  finished  his  cup,  he  real- 
ized he  was  very  hungry.  He  looked 
around  instinctively  for  food.  He 
had  enough  synthetics  in  his  bags 
to  do  him  for  awhile,  but  he  might 
as  well  make  the  plunge  and  start 
eating  the  native  foods  right  away. 
No  use  coddling  himself. 

The  girl  noticed  the  look.  “I 
didn’t  prepare  food  for  you  because 
dinner  will  be  served  in  just  a little 
while.  We  eat  all  together,  down 
by  the  river.  You  will  hear  drums 
to  announce  when  the  meal  is 
ready,  and  you  get  there  by  walking 
to  the  end  of  that  path.”  She 
pointed  a delicate  finger  at  a small 
foot-path  winding  by  a few  yards 
from  where  he  sat. 


OMING  OUT  of  the  little  for- 
est at  the  end  of  the  path, 
Kirk  paused  to  take  in  the  scene. 
Between  him  and  the  river  was  a 
wild  jumble  of  men  and  women, 
laughing  and  talking,  children  run- 
ning and  stumbling  over  small  pet 
animals,  piles  of  nuts  and  fruits 

APRIL  SMITH 


and  hot  foods  heaped  together  be- 
side small  fires.  Some  of  the  people 
sat  on  straw  mats,  but  most,  simply 
on  the  ground.  There  were  neither 
tables  nor  chairs.  To  Kirk  it  looked 
like  utter  confusion. 

With  a sense  of  gratitude,  he 
saw  a tall,  uniformed  figure  com- 
ing up  to  him,  with  a brisk,  definite 
stride.  The  Terran’s  face  was  lined 
and  firm,  the  kind  of  face  Kirk  was 
familiar  with.  The  man  with  this 
face  would  be  a man  who  stood  for 
no  nonsense,  a man  who  was  a little 
tough,  but  also  fair  and  capable. 
He  recognized  him  as  he  came 
closer. 

“Hello,  sir.  I’m  Matt  Cortland, 
your  second  in  command,”  he  said 
brusquely.  “I  met  you  this  after- 
noon, but  you  met  so  many  people 
then  it  must  have  been  just  a blur 
of  names  and  faces.” 

Kirk  greeted  him,  feeling  a sense 
of  satisfaction  that  this  man  would 
be  his  chief  assistant.  He  looked 
efficient;  he  should  be  able  to  help 
him  learn  the  ropes  and  get  a pro- 
gram of  action  started. 

“No  chairs,”  Cortland  said  la- 
conically, as  they  walked  toward 
the  gathering.  He  chose  a soft  spot 
of  lavender-tinted  moss  near  a pile 
of  hot  food  and  sat  down,  cross- 
legged.  Awkwardly,  Kirk  sat  down 
beside  him,  folding  his  legs  under 
him  stiffly.  “You  can  be  served  in 
your  rooms,  of  course,  if  you  like,” 
Cortland  went  on,  turning  to  him. 
“These  people  are  very  obliging. 
Very  obliging.”  He  reached  for 
two  of  the  leaf-wrapped,  steaming 
objects,  handing  one  to  Kirk.  “But 
you  probably  have  a better  chance 
of  influencing  them  if  you  eat 

birthright 


among  them.  If  they  can  be  in- 
fluenced.” He  opened  the  leaf  and 
bit  into  the  yellow  vegetable  inside. 

Kirk  looked  dubiously  at  the  ob- 
ject in  his  hand.  He  hoped  it 
wouldn’t  make  him  sick.  Pushing 
back  his  sense  of  disgust,  he  bit  into 
it  carefully.  The  Wand,  sweetish 
flavor  filled  him  with  delightful 
surprise.  It  was  rather  like  a mix- 
ture of  sweet  potato,  carrot,  and 
peach  synthetics — but  the  texture 
and  flavor  were  new  and  wonder- 
ful. Maybe  civilization  had  lost 
something  good  when  it  gave  up 
natural  foods.  Though,  of  course, 
their  preparation  was  time-wasting 
and  inefficient,  he  reminded  him- 
self; and  swallowing  synthetics  re- 
quired only  a momentary  break  in 
your  work  when  you  were  pressed 
for  time.  He  looked  up  and  found 
Cortland  watching  him. 

“Pretty  different  from  the  food 
at  home,  eh?”  He  had  slipped  into 
the  Terran  language.  “Good  food 
and  pretty  girls.”  He  gestured  to- 
ward the  graceful,  half -nude  wom- 
en scattered  along  the  mossy  bank. 
“Everything  for  the  lotus-eaters.” 
The  phrase  meant  nothing  to 
Kirk. 

One  of  the  girls  came  over  to 
them  with  a large  gourd  full  of 
fruit  and  nuts,  and  another  on 
which  she  heaped  hot  foods  from 
the  piles  on  the  ground  as  she 
passed.  She  placed  them  on  the 
ground  beside  the  two  men. 

“Yes,  everything  for  the  lotus- 
eaters,”  Cortland  repeated.  “In- 
cidentally, I hope  you’re  not  under 
the  impression  that  that  girl  is 
naked  from  the  waist  up.” 

Kirk  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

29 


“Oh,  no.  She’s  completely  cov- 
ered. They  have  taboos  about 
naked  breasts,  just  like  we  do.”  He 
laughed  at  Kirk’s  look  of  mystifica- 
tion. “You  notice  those  strands  of 
shells  or  woven  reeds  they  wear 
around  their  necks?” 

Kirk  looked  around.  They  all 
wore  them. 

“Well,  that  signifies  they  are 
dressed.  If  you  ever  see  a native 
girl  without  one,  she’ll  be  terribly 
embarrassed.”  He  stuck  his  hand 
out  toward  the  bowl  of  hot  food. 
“After  you’ve  been  here  long 
enough  you’ll  think  they’re  dressed, 
too.” 

He  laughed,  then  looked  more 
serious. 

“I’ve  been  here  a long  time,  get- 
ting nowhere,”  he  said,  in  a differ- 
ent tone.  “There  are  a lot  of  things 
that  could  be  done  here.  I’ve  spent 
a lot  of  time  thinking  about  it.  But 
Jerwyn — ” He  hesitated.  “I  hope 
you  intend  to  make  the  name  of 
the  Galactic  Union  mean  some- 
thing here.” 

Kirk  nodded,  and  Cortland  went 
on.  “Jerwyn  tried  when  he  first 
came.  But  after  awhile  he  seemed 
to  just  give  up.  I couldn’t  do  any- 
thing without  him  backing  me,  I 
don’t  have  enough  authority.”  He 
looked  grim  as  he  spoke.  “And  be- 
sides that,  it  takes  more  than  one 
good  man.  Oh,  the  other  GU  men 
here  are  capable  enough — ” He 
glanced  toward  a group  of  Ter- 
rans  sitting  nearby.  “They’ll  be 
over  in  a little  while  to  speak  to 
you,  incidentally;  I asked  them  to 
hold  off  for  a litde,  while  I briefed 
you  a bit — no  sense  deluging  you 
with  new  people  while  you’re  try- 

30 


ing  to  eat.” 

“But  to  get  back,”  he  went  on, 
“they’re  capable  enough,  or  they 
were  once,  anyway,  but  none  of 
them  has  the  drive  and  brains  it 
takes  to  push  through  a project 
to  develop  this  planet.  They’ve 
pretty  well  given  up.  Some  of  them 
like  it  here  and  some  of  them  don’t, 
but  they’ve  all  stopped  trying.”  A 
look  of  contempt  crossed  his  face. 
“They  go  through  the  motions  of 
doing  some  work  to  earn  their 
salaries,  knock  off  at  noon,  and 
spend  their  time  lying  around  on 
the  beaches  with  Nemarian  girls. 
I’ve  done  what  I could  to  keep  a 
semblance  of  discipline,  but  it’s 
uphill  work.” 

Kirk  looked  at  him  steadily.  “All 
that’s  going  to  be  changed.” 

Cortland  smiled.  “Good.”  Their 
eyes  met,  with  understanding. 

“And  I’m  very  happy  to  have  a 
man  of  your  caliber  with  me,”  Kirk 
said  quietly. 

Cortland  gave  him  a long  look. 
“Maybe  you’ve  got  what  it  takes. 
Maybe  you  have.”  He  nodded  slow- 
ly. “I  should  have  told  you  I don’t 
entirely  blame  the  men.  This  plan- 
et’s a tough  nut  to  crack.”  His  voice 
was  grim. 

Kirk  felt  a vague  uneasiness,  but 
his  look  stayed  determined.  “We’ll 
crack  it.” 

“We’ve  been  here  forty  years, 
and  we  haven’t  made  a dent. 
They’re  funny  people,  these  Ne- 
marians.  They’re  really  alien.  I’ve 
been  here  fifteen  years,  and  I don’t 
understand  them  any  better  than 
when  I came.” 

“That’s  quite  a statement.” 

“They’re  very  appealing.  Naive. 

APRIL  SMITH 


Childlike.  The  soul  of  courtesy — 
on  the  surface.  But  it’s  deceptive. 
And  you  could  spend  a lifetime  try- 
ing to  find  out  what’s  underneath.” 

A young  boy  of  about  twelve 
came  up  as  he  spoke,  setting  a large 
gourd  full  of  steaming  liquid  down 
beside  them  with  lithe  grace,  filling 
smaller  cups  from  it  as  he  did  so. 
Cortland  nodded  at  him,  turning 
again  to  Kirk  as  the  boy  walked 
away.  “Even  their  children  aren’t 
really  childlike.  Did  you  see  his 
eyes — makes  you  damned  uncom- 
fortable.” 

As  Kirk  started  to  answer,  drum- 
beats began  to  fill  the  air,  first  soft- 
ly, then  louder.  Strange  sounds 
from  unfamiliar  instruments  began 
to  mingle  with  them,  and  a clear, 
high  instrument  added  a melody. 
The  whole  effect  had  an  alien,  dis- 
cordant quality  for  Kirk,  but  as  he 
listened  further  he  grew  intrigued 
and  began  to  enjoy  it;  a mood — 
happy  and  romantic  and  energetic, 
all  at  once — came  through  to  him 
from  the  music. 

“The  dancing’s  beginning,”  Cort- 
land informed  him. 

Kirk  saw  young  men  and  women 
rise  by  ones  and  two’s  and  begin 
swaying  and  turning  their  bodies 
to  the  music.  They  all  seemed  to  be 
doing  different  things,  and  yet 
somehow  it  made  an  integrated 
pattern.  To  his  surprise  older  peo- 
ple and  even  young  children  grad- 
ually joined  in,  and  managed  not 
to  look  inappropriate,  although  the 
dance  movements  were  rapid  and 
strenuous. 

He  noticed  a sweet,  pungent  odor 
filling  his  nostrils  and  realized  it 
came  from  the  steaming  bowl  be- 

BIRTHRIGHT 


side  them.  He  picked  up  one  of  the 
filled  cups  and  tried  it  cautiously. 
It  was  delightful.  He  emptied  it 
and  poured  another. 

He  felt  Cortland’s  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  looked  up  to  find  him 
grinning  at  him.  “Hey,  take  it 
easy  with  that  stuff.  That’s  fer- 
mented kara  root — the  local  variety 
of  booze.  They  can  drink  quarts 
of  the  stuff  and  be  all  right;  I’ve 
never  seen  one  of  them  really 
drunk.  But  you’d  better  not  try  it.” 

Kirk  frowned.  “Something  dif- 
ferent in  our  metabolism?  I 
thought — ” 

“No,  they’re  quite  human,”  Cort- 
land broke  in.  “And  it’s  not  a mat- 
ter of  immunity.  I wondered  about 
it  for  a long  time — and  got  quite 
disgracefully  drunk  a couple  of 
times,  keeping  up  with  them,  before 
I figured  it  out.”  He  sipped  at  his 
own  cup.  “No,  the  secret  of  their 
success  is  the  dancing.” 

Kirk  looked  at  the  light,  whirl- 
ing figures,  puzzled. 

Cortland  smiled  at  his  bewilder- 
ment. “It’s  the  exercise.  It  bums 
up  the  alcohol  as  fast  as  they  drink 
it.  When  they’re  having  a real  feast, 
they  dance  and  drink  all  night,  till 
they  collapse  from  pure  exhaustion. 
They  wake  up  feeling  fine — not  a 
sign  of  a hangover.  Of  course,  to- 
night they’ll  only  dance  for  a little 
while,  so  they’ll  only  drink  a 
little  . . .” 

“Sensible,  aren’t  they?”  The 
voice  came  out  of  the  air  behind 
them,  sardonic,  feminine.  The  lan- 
guage was  Terran. 

Kirk  whirled  and  peered  through 
the  dusk,  which  was  gathering 

31 


rapidly.  He  saw  a slightly  amused 
pair  of  brown  eyes,  brunette  hair, 
and  a trim  body  dressed  in  chic 
good  taste  in  expensive  Terran 
clothes. 

Cortland  stood  up.  “Mrs.  Sherrin 
. . . our  new  Planetary  Administra- 
tor, Cyril  Kirk.” 

She  lowered  herself  to  the 
ground,  spreading  out  a small  mat 
under  her  as  she  did  so.  “Jeannette, 
if  you  don’t  mind.”  She  folded  her 
legs  under  her  carefully.  “I  don’t 
mean  to  be  disrespectful.  But 
there’s  such  a small  number  of  us 
here,  we  need  to  be  friends  and 
stick  together.” 

Cortland,  who  had  been  looking 
away  for  a moment  turned  to  them. 
“If  you’ll  excuse  me,  someone 
wants  to  talk  to  me.”  Kirk  nodded. 

“Did  I meet  your  husband  this 
afternoon?”  he  inquired  politely,  as 
Cortland  strode  off. 

“No;  I’m  a widow.” 

“Oh,  I’m  sorry,”  he  murmured. 

“Don’t  be.  Not  for  me,  I mean. 
We’d  been  coming  to  a parting  of 
the  ways  for  a long  time.  But  let’s 
not  talk  about  that.  How  do  you 
like  the  dancing?” 

He  looked  at  the  firelit  figures, 
whirling  in  the  growing  dusk.  “I 
don’t  know.  I’m  sort  of  over- 
whelmed by  everything.  It’s  all  so 
new.  I’ve  heard  so  many  confusing 
things — ” 

She  nodded.  “If  you  manage 
to  make  sense  out  of  the  Nemar- 
ians,  you’ll  make  history.  It’s  better 
not  to  worry  about  it  too  much.  Im- 
merse yourself  in  their  gay,  happy 
life.” 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

She  gave  him  a sharp  look. 


“You’ll  find  out  what  I mean. 
Didn’t  Cortland  tell  you?” 

“What  are  you  talking  about?” 
“Well,  you  might  as  well  go  in 
cold  at  that.  Form  your  own  con- 
clusions as  you  go  along.  No  use 
giving  you  prejudices  before  you 
start.  Maybe  you’re  the  man  who’ll 
cut  the  Gordian  knot.  No  use  tell- 
ing you  it  can’t  be  done.” 

“What  can’t  be  done?” 

“We’ll  all  be  rooting  for  you.” 
She  poured  herself  a drink  and 
downed  it  quickly.  “Great  stuff, 
this.  Makes  you  forget  the  petty 
annoyances  of  the  garden-spot  of 
the  galaxy.”  She  poured  another. 
“To  Nemar,”  she  said,  lifting  it. 
“Now  tell  me  about  Terra.  What’s 
been  happening  back  home?” 

He  coidd  get  nothing  more  out 
of  her. 


Kirk  struggled  to  control 

his  irritation  as  the  last  Ne- 
marian  on  his  list  walked  in,  poised 
and  self-confident,  casually  uncon- 
cerned about  his  lateness.  Some- 
thing would  have  to  be  done  about 
their  sloppiness  and  lack  of  dis- 
cipline, but  now  wasn’t  the  time. 
It  wouldn’t  do  to  lose  his  temper  at 
the  first  official  meeting  he  called. 

First  he  needed  to  stir  some  am- 
bition in  them,  prod  them  out  of 
their  lethargy. 

He  looked  around  at  the  assem- 
bled members  of  his  joint  Terran- 
Nemarian  staff.  The  Terran  mem- 
bers were  making  an  attempt  to 
stand  stiffly  at  attention,  some- 
what awkwardly  as  though  they 
were  out  of  practice.  They  threw 
rather  disconcerted  looks  at  his 


32 


APRIL  SMITH 


stern,  impassive  young  face.  The 
Nemarians  stood  casually  erect  or 
lounged  against  the  wall. 

Once  more,  he  found  himself 
troubled  by  a faint  sense  of  incon- 
gruity. Something  about  these  na- 
tives was  not  primitive.  Without 
saying  a word,  just  by  standing  and 
looking  at  him,  they  made  him  feel 
awkward  and  insecure. 

He  straightened  his  shoulders 
and  tried  to  make  his  expression 
even  more  stem.  He  wished  he 
looked  older. 

A sense  of  the  power  of  his  posi- 
tion overwhelmed  him  for  a mo- 
ment. 

He  glanced  at  the  speech  he’d 
prepared,  then  at  the  faces  before 
him.  Slowly  he  pushed  it  aside. 
Somehow  he  couldn’t  use  those 
formal  sentences  with  these  people. 
Diplomatic  phrases  didn’t  sound 
right  in  Nemarian. 

“Good  morning,”  he  said  abrupt- 
ly. “I  won’t  waste  time  on  prelimi- 
naries.” He  paused.  “I’ve  only  been 
here  a day,  but  so  far  I’ve  seen 
very  few  signs  of  Terran  influence 
— a more  or  less  obsolete  type  of 
ground  transportation,  a few  tools 
and  household  conveniences,  some 
art  objects.  Very  little  else.  I don’t 
fully  understand  why  conditions  are 
so  backward  here  on  Nemar  when 
it  has  been  part  of  the  Galactic 
Union  for  forty  years.” 

The  Terrans  in  the  group  stirred 
uneasily. 

“The  important  thing,  however, 
is  that  the  situation  be  changed  so 
that  Nemar  may  be  given  the  bene- 
fits of  galactic  culture.” 

He  paused  and  looked  around. 
The  natives  were  listening  cour- 

BIRTHRIGHT 


teously  and  looking  slightly  bored. 
The  Terrans  looked  uneasy  or  em- 
barrassed. 

“What  prevents  this  change,”  he 
went  on,  “is  the  fact  that  there  is 
nothing  of  value  to  export.”  He 
leaned  forward.  “But  I don’t  be- 
lieve that  this  or  any  planet  can 
possess  nothing  of  value.  It’s  sim- 
ply a matter  of  finding  it.  It’s  a 
matter  of  looking  into  new  places, 
with  new  techniques,  or  for  new 
things.  If  a sufficiently  thorough 
search  is  made,  something  will  turn 
up.”  He  tried  to  ignore  the  signs 
of  restlessness  in  his  audience. 

“I’m  going  to  organize  research 
groups  for  thus  purpose  immediate- 
ly. Each  of  you  will  head  a commit- 
tee to  investigate  the  possibilities  in 
a particular  field — ^fuels,  plants, 
animal  products,  etc.  You  will 
bring  the  reports  to  me,  and  I will 
check  them  and  indicate  further 
directions  of  search.” 

He  continued,  outlining  his  plans 
in  detail,  stressing  the  great  advan- 
tages to  be  gained,  the  wonderful 
things  galactic  culture  had  to  offer 
them — the  marvelous  machines  and 
labor-saving  devices,  the  rich  fab- 
rics and  jewels,  the  vidar  entertain- 
ments, the  whole  fabulous  tech- 
nology of  a great,  advanced  civiliza- 
tion. He  spoke  with  enthusiasm, 
but  as  he  continued,  a growing 
sense  of  apprehension  began  to 
creep  into  his  energetic,  determined 
mood. 

Something  was  wrong  with  their 
reactions. 

He  puzzled  over  it  as  he  watched 
them  file  out  of  the  room  after  he 
finished.  The  voice  of  one  of  his 
younger  subordinates  drifted  back 

33 


to  him  from  the  hall  outside: 
“Made  me  homesick  for  good  old 
Terra.  I’d  give  a lot  to  see  a good 
vidar-show  right  now  ...”  Cort- 
land pressed  his  arm  lightly  as  he 
passed,  nodding  his  approval  of 
the  proceedings. 

One  of  the  Terrans  lingered  a 
moment  as  the  last  of  the  group 
left.  His  expression  was  serious.  “I’d 
like  you  to  know  that  I’m  all  for 
you,  sir,  and  I’m  glad  to  see  a man 
of  your  stature  in  the  PA’s  office,” 
he  said  nervously.  “I  hope  we’ll  see 
some  changes  in  the  attitude  of 
these  Nemarians.  I’ve  never  liked 
their  attitude.”  He  ran  a hand 
through  his  sandy-colored  hair. 
“They’re  funny  people,  sir.  You’ve 
only  been  here  a day,  and  nobody 
may  have  warned  you  yet.  They’re 
very  courteous,  but  don’t  let  it  fool 
you.  You’re  going  to  have  trouble 
with  them.” 

Kirk  looked  after  him  as  he  fol- 
lowed the  others  out,  a sense  of 
confusion  and  discouragement  be- 
ginning to  settle  over  him.  He 
wandered  slowly  into  the  flowered 
patio  adjoining  the  office. 

The  reaction  of  the  Nemarian 
officials  was  the  strangest.  They 
had  shown  no  open  opposition.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  had  certainly 
been  no  cheering.  Their  attitude 
had  been  one  of  courteous  interest, 
plus  some  quality  he  couldn’t  quite 
define.  He  searched  for  the  right 
word  . . . something  almost  like 
compassion,  as  if  they  were  humor- 
ing a child’s  enthusiasm  for  a 
naive,  impractical  project. 

He  sat  down  by  a clump  of  blue- 
green  flowers.  Maybe  he  was  just 
nervous  because  of  his  inexperi- 

34 


ence,  he  thought.  He’d  had  plenty 
of  practice  experience  (supervised, 
of  course),  but  it  was  a different 
matter  managing  an  isolated  plan- 
et, completely  on  his  own.  And 
he’d  had  the  bad  luck  to  come 
after  a guy  who’d  apparently  let 
discipline  go  to  pieces.  Maybe  it 
was  just  the  newness  of  the  whole 
thing.  Maybe — 

But  he  knew  better. 

He  had  given  them  a good,  ef- 
ficient, well-organized  plan  of  ac- 
tion. They  should  have  been  im- 
pressed— impressed  and  respectful. 
They  should  have  been  grateful  he 
was  plunging  so  enthusiastically 
into  an  effort  to  improve  their 
situation.  They  should  have  been 
excited  and  hopeful. 

There  was  something  strange 
here,  something  he  didn’t  under- 
stand. 

He  knew  so  little  about  Nemar. 

The  Terrans  in  the  group  had 
not  reacted  as  they  should  have, 
either,  he  thought.  Some  of  them 
had  shown  the  sort  of  reaction  he 
expected,  but  most  of  them  had  re- 
mained quiet,  too  quiet,  with  a 
peculiar,  tolerant  look.  As  if  they 
knew  something  he  didn’t. 

There  was  something  disturbing 
about  their  whole  manner.  They 
were  respectful  and  deferential,  but 
not  quite  respectful  enough.  Their 
attitude  was  just  a shade  too  casual. 
Something  was  wrong. 

They  even  looked  different, 
somehow,  from  the  usual  Terran 
on  space  duty.  The  dedicated  look 
was  gone  and  a softness  had  crept 
in. 

Somehow,  the  planet  had  in- 
fected them. 


APRIL  SMITH 


The  clear-eyed  old  Ne- 

marian  he’d  been  talking  to 
had  just  turned  away  when  she 
came  up. 

“Good  evening.  How  do  you  like 
bird’s  eggs  a la  Nemar?”  Jeannette 
pointed  to  the  shells  beside  him. 

“Hello.  They’re  very  good.”  He 
motioned  her  to  sit  down. 

“The  youngsters  here  gather 
them  out  of  the  trees.  They  make 
a sport  of  it.”  She  reached  for  one 
from  the  pile  near  them  and  tapped 
it  open.  “Sentimental  creatures — 
they  always  leave  one  or  two  so  the 
mother  bird  won’t  be  unhappy.” 
Kirk  was  trying  to  draw  his  eyes 
away  from  the  young  Nemarian 
mother  in  the  group  near  him  who 
was  complacently  nursing  her  baby 
in  full  view  of  everyone.  Jeannette 
stared  in  the  direction  of  his  look. 

“Oh,  you’ll  get  used  to  that  soon 
enough.” 

He  wondered  if  he  would.  They 
made  a rather  touching  picture, 
though,  he  realized  through  his 
embarrassment.  There  was  a lot  of 
tenderness  in  the  woman’s  gestures. 

“They  spoil  their  children  rot- 
ten.” 

Kirk  looked  surprised.  “The  ones 
I’ve  seen  have  been  very  courte- 
ous.” 

She  shrugged.  “Oh,  they’re  po- 
lite enough.  But  just  try  and  make 
them  do  something  they  don’t  want 
to!  They’re  completely  undis- 
ciplined— they’re  fed  when  they 
please,  they  sleep  when  they  please, 
they  do  whatever  they  like.  They 
have  schools  for  them,  but  it’s 
completely  up  to  the  children 
whether  they  want  to  go  or  not. 
The  parents  haven’t  a thing  to  say 

birthright 


about  it.  No  one  ever  lays  a hand 
to  them,  no  matter  what  they  do.” 
“I  haven’t  noticed  any  quarrel- 
ing,” he  said,  surprised  at  his  own 
observation.  It  was  true.  He  hadn’t 
seen  a sign  of  it,  even  between  the 
children  themselves,  though  they 
made  enough  noise  yelling  and 
romping. 

“Oh,  those  tactics  fit  them  per- 
fectly for  this  society,”  she  said  in- 
differently. “The  adults  here  are 
just  like  the  children.  Nobody  ever 
does  any  work.” 

“But  that’s  impossible.  The  food, 
the  houses,  the — ” 

“Well,  I suppose  I exaggerated. 
They  do  things  they  don’t  like  once 
in  awhile,  if  they  want  the  end 
product  enough.  But  mostly,  if  they 
can’t  make  a big  game  of  it,  they 
don’t  do  it.  Tomorrow’s  nut-gath- 
ering day,”  she  added  irrelevantly. 
“Nut-gathering  day?” 

“Yes.  Everybody  frolics  off  into 
the  hills  to  pick  nuts.  Like  a picnic. 
That’s  what  I mean — if  they  didn’t 
consider  it  a pleasure  outing,  the 
nuts  could  hit  them  on  the  head, 
and  they’d  never  bother  to  pick 
them  up.”  She  cocked  her  head  at 
him.  “Want  to  go?” 

“Go  where?  Nut-gathering,  you 
mean?”  He  laughed.  “No,  thanks.” 
“Thought  you  might  like  to  study 
the  natives  in  their  day-to-day  ac- 
tivities, get  the  real  local  flavor. 
You  might  learn  something,  at  that. 
Though  I guess  you’d  have  a rough 
time  climbing  the  trees.” 

“I’ve  had  an  hour  a day  at  gym- 
nastics for  the  past  three  years.” 
“Yes,  you  look  in  good  shape.” 
Her  glance  swept  over  him  ap- 
provingly. “But  gymnastics  and 

35 


those  trees  are  two  different  things. 
The  edible  nuts  grow  on  the  tall 
trees,  not  the  short  ones,  and  they 
sway  in  the  wind.  The  young  men 
do  most  of  the  climbing.  They’re 
pretty  wonderful  physical  speci- 
mens, I’ll  say  that.”  She  glanced  at 
one  of  them  near  by,  who  was 
whispering  in  the  ear  of  a Nemar- 
ian  girl. 

Kirk  felt  oddly  annoyed.  They 
were  magnificent  physical  speci- 
mens, he  thought.  But  then  so 
were  the  women  and  children.  He 
realized  that  he  hadn’t  seen  a sick- 
ly or  weak-looking  native  since  he 
arrived.  Even  the  old  people  kept 
their  magnificent  posture,  and 
managed  to  make  age  seem  a mat- 
ter of  gathering  wisdom  instead  of 
collecting  infirmities.  Weren’t  they 
ever  sick,  he  wondered. 

“The  girls  are  lovely,  too,”  he  re- 
minded her. 

“Yes,  but  try  to  get  near  one  of 
them,”  she  flashed  back.  “They 
prefer  their  own.”  Her  eyes  nar- 
rowed. “They’re  pleasant  people, 
but  they’re  not  pleasant  to  live 
with.  It  gets  on  your  nerves  after 
awhile.” 

“Why  didn’t  you  leave,  Jean- 
nette?” 

“On  the  spaceship  you  came 
on?” 

“Yes.  There  may  not  be  another 
for  five  years.” 

“That’s  the  big  question,”  she 
said  slowly.  “I’m  not  sure  I know 
the  answer.  I half  intended  to  leave 
on  the  ship  when  it  came.  But 
when  it  came  down  to  it,  I didn’t 
leave.”  She  stared  ahead  of  her. 
“Something  about  the  place  gets 
you.  Maybe  it’s  the  lif^.  Maybe  you 

36 


get  used  to  lying  around  in  the 
sun,  and  you  feel  kind  of  frightened 
at  returning  to  all  the  hustle  and 
bustle  of  Terra.  And  then,  you 
keep  waiting,  hoping  that — ” 

“Hoping  what?” 

For  a moment,  she  looked  de- 
fenseless and  a little  hurt.  Then 
the  cynical  smile  came  back.  “You 
don’t  even  know  what  you’re  hop- 
ing for,  really,”  she  said  lightly. 

He  knew  she  was  evading  him. 

He  lay  in  bed  later,  wondering 
what  Jeannette  could  have  meant, 
what  could  accoimt  for  that  brief 
hurt  look. 

She  was  an  attractive  girl,  he 
thought  idly.  He  wondered  why  he 
felt  nothing  for  her,  when  the  na- 
tive girl  aroused  in  him  such  an 
unreasonable  longing.  It  would  be 
a good  deal  more  convenient  to  fall 
for  Jeannette. 

He  couldn’t  afford  to  get  mixed 
up  with  his  maid. 

Remembering  her,  he  suddenly 
felt  his  body  trembling. 

All  right,  he  told  himself,  so  she’s 
an  ignorant,  backward  native  on  a 
planet  nobody  ever  heard  of.  Prac- 
tically a savage.  And  even  here, 
she’s  just  a maid,  a cleaning  wom- 
an. Nobody  a Planetary  Adminis- 
trator could  think  about  getting 
mixed  up  with.  But  how  do  they 
turn  them  out  like  that? 

How  do  they  turn  them  out  like 
that,  he  thought — every  movement 
fluid,  every  position  graceful,  every 
gesture  exquisite?  How  does  this 
nonentity  of  a planet  turn  out  a 
girl  with  the  kind  of  walk  the  video- 
stars back  home  practice  and  work 
years  to  approach?  With  a voice 

APRIL  SMITH 


with  that  indescribable  music  and 
precision?  With  a flawless  skin,  ra- 
diant hair,  a serenity  auid  self-con- 
fidence that  would  make  the  great- 
est beauties  on  Terra  envious?  With 
a quiet,  careless  pride  that  made 
him,  the  new  ruler  of  her  planet, 
awkward  and  insecure  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  own  servant? 

Jeannette  had  been  jealous,  he 
realized  suddenly.  She  was  jealous 
of  these  girls,  of  their  grace,  of 
their  radiance.  Her  cynicism  cov- 
ered a bitter  envy. 

For  a long  time  he  lay  there, 
trying  to  sleep,  haunted  by  Nanae’s 
luminous  eyes. 

He  started  working  the  next 
morning. 

There  was  no  use  putting  it  off, 
he  thought.  Nemar  seemed  to  act 
like  a drug,  gradually  depriving 
you  of  your  drive  and  ambition.  He 
wasn’t  going  to  give  it  a chance  to 
let  its  poison  seep  into  him. 

He  flung  himself  into  his  duties 
as  Planetary  Administrator  with  a 
grim  determination.  He  struggled 
to  organize  the  affairs  of  the  planet 
on  a more  efficient  basis.  He  intro- 
duced new  methods  and  tech- 
niques. He  worked  tirelessly,  relent- 
lessly, hardly  noticing  their  passage 
as  one  day  followed  another.  And 
every  moment  he  could  spare,  he 
devoted  to  the  project  for  finding 
something  of  value  to  export. 

He  was  going  to  put  this  planet 
on  the  map.  He  didn’t  know  how 
yet,  but  he  was  going  to  do  it. 

He  was  going  to  turn  his  misfor- 
tune into  a triumph. 

Every  hint  of  a possibility  was 

birthright 


followed  up  with  eagerness.  Every 
lead,  every  clue,  was  the  subject  of 
exhaustive  study  and  investigation. 
His  days  were  a succession  of 
guarded  hopes  and  disappoint- 
ments, of  surges  of  optimism  and 
long  stretches  of  discouragement. 
He  pushed  his  wearied  body  into 
greater  and  greater  efforts,  working 
unflaggingly  through  the  day  and 
most  of  the  night,  spurred  by  the 
anger  that  still  burned  in  him. 

The  natives,  he  knew,  looked  at 
the  light  burning  late  into  the 
night  and  thought  he  was  a little 
crazy.  He  gave  up  eating  with 
them.  It  was  too  easy,  there  by 
the  river,  to  drift  into  staying  later 
and  later,  drinking  their  hot  wine, 
chatting,  watching  the  dancing.  It 
was  too  hard  to  resist  tihe  tempta- 
tion of  midnight  swimming  later 
with  the  young  men  and  women  at 
the  nearby  beach,  with  revels  and 
bonfires  on  the  lavender  sands  aft- 
erward. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks,  he  sat 
on  his  bed,  taking  stock  of  what 
he  had  accomplished. 

It  was  very  little. 

And  he  was  very  tired. 

The  tiredness  was  familiar.  It 
was  just  like  school  all  over  again, 
he  thought,  the  same  long  exhaust- 
ing hours  of  driving  oneself  relent- 
lessly. He  wondered  when  he’d  be 
able  to  relax.  He  didn’t  dare  relax 
now.  When  he  had  a lead,  a defi- 
nite hope  of  some  kind,  he  could 
begin  to  let  up.  But  not  till  then. 
It  would  be  too  easy  to  give  up  and 
let  go  altogether,  go  the  way  Jer- 
wyn  had  gone. 

He  was  beginning  to  understand 

37 


why  Jerwyn  had  given  up. 

He  was  beginning  to  understand 
a lot  of  things — the  odd,  cryptic 
remarks  he  had  heard  about  the 
natives  when  he  first  arrived,  the 
mixed  admiration  and  exasperation 
they  seemed  to  arouse. 

He  remembered  a man  named 
Gandhi  from  ancient  Indian  his- 
tory. 

The  Nemarians  could  have  given 
Gandhi  lessons. 

Working  with  them  was  like 
working  with  an  invisible  wall  of 
resistance  that  weakened  here  and 
strengthened  there,  gave  in  un- 
expectedly at  one  place  and  resisted 
implacably  at  another. 

At  times  his  plans  were  praised; 
then  they  were  put  into  eflfect  with 
an  efficiency  that  astonished  him. 
At  other  times  they  were  criticized, 
in  a casual,  friendly  manner  that 
enraged  him.  Then  they  were  not 
put  into  effect  at  all.  When  he  in- 
sisted on  obedience,  the  natives 
reacted  with  an  attitude  of  patient 
tolerance,  and  did  nothing.  Most  of 
the  time,  his  orders  were  received 
indifferently  and  carried  out  with 
an  agonizing  slowness. 

He  pushed  and  prodded  them. 
He  reasoned  with  them.  He  shouted 
at  them. 

He  reaped  nothing  but  frustra- 
tion. 

They  didn’t  hate  him.  He  knew 
that.  He  had  never  seen  a trace  of 
malice  in  their  expressions.  People 
smiled  at  him  when  he  passed, 
and  children  came  up  to  tug  at 
his  hand  and  ask  him  to  come  to 
visit  their  house.  There  was  none 
of  the  stony  hatred  here  he  knew 
existed  in  many  places  for  the  all- 

38 


powerful  Galactic  Union. 

They  simply  seemed  to  lack  all 
appreciation  of  the  importance  of 
his  position. 

Yet  they  knew,  he  thought.  They 
knew  he  had  what  amounted  to  al- 
most unlimited  power  over  their 
planet.  They  knew  a space-fleet 
that  had  burned  life  off  the  face 
of  entire  planets  lay  at  his  disposal. 
They  knew  he  could  crush  any  re- 
bellion instantly. 

But,  of  course,  they  weren’t  re- 
belling, he  thought.  They  weren’t 
even  openly  uncooperative.  There 
it  was  again : they  weren’t  even  un- 
friendly; they  deluged  him  with 
constant  invitations. 

They  knew  of  his  power,  but 
they  acted  as  if  it  didn’t  exist. 

And  he  wasn’t  sure  they  weren’t 
going  to  win  with  him,  as  they  had 
with  Jerwyn.  The  Galactic  Union 
did  not  look  with  approval  on  any 
call  for  aid  except  in  a military 
crisis;  such  a request  was  in  effect 
an  affidavit  of  failure.  Besides,  he 
didn’t  want  to  complain.  He  didn’t 
want  to  set  himself  against  them. 
He  was  working  for  them,  not  just 
for  himself. 

He  sighed  and  began  to  get 
ready  for  bed. 

Primitive  people  had  always 
fought  progress  and  change.  They 
had  always  clung  to  old,  outworn 
methods.  But  there  was  more  to  it 
than  that,  he  thought.  Primitive 
people  were  usually  full  of  super- 
stitious fear  of  change,  but  the  Ne- 
marians were  not  afraid.  You 
couldn’t  think  of  them  as  fearful. 
They  knew  the  danger — they  knew 
the  strength  and  power  that  faced 
them — but  they  were  not  afraid. 

APRIL  SMITH 


They  didn’t  even  “handle  with 
care”. 

Where  did  their  courage  come 
from? 

Or  was  it  just  blind  stupidity,  he 
thought,  a refusal  to  look  facts  in 
the  face,  to  admit  that  they  were 
the  helpless,  backward  subjects  of 
an  immensely  more  powerful  and 
more  advanced  civilization? 

He  pulled  off  a shoe  absently, 
and  he  thought  of  all  the  docu- 
ments and  reports  he  had  read 
about  Nemar.  Ross  had  given  them 
to  him,  and  he  had  searched  in 
them  for  a clue  to  help  him  under- 
stand why  Ross  was  sending  him 
here.  He  had  read  and  reread 
them,  and  they  had  told  him  little 
more  than  Ross  himself  about  Ne- 
mar. 

There  was  something  peculiar 
about  all  those  documents,  he 
thought,  something  odd  about  the 
way  they  were  written.  They  de- 
scribed an  undeveloped  planet 
without  valuable  resources  or  any 
kind  of  technology,  in  no  way  out 
of  the  ordinary.  But  between  the 
lines  was  something  that  said  this 
planet  was  out  of  the  ordinary,  in 
spite  of  the  apparent  facts.  There 
was  the  unavoidable  feeling  that 
something  was  left  unsaid. 

What  were  they  trying  to  hide? 
Why  hadn’t  they  let  him  know 
what  he  was  in  for? 

Terrans  had  been  coming  for 
forty  years.  In  forty  years,  they 
must  have  learned  something.  They 
must  have  found  out  something 
about  what  made  these  people  the 
way  they  were,  and  about  how  to 
deal  with  them.  There  should  have 
been  warnings  and  suggestions  and 

birthright 


at  least,  if  nothing  else,  descriptions 
of  methods  that  had  been  tried  and 
failed.  It  should  all  have  been  there, 
out  in  the  open;  it  should  have 
been  down  in  black  and  white:  this 
is  the  situation,  so  far  as  we  know 
it;  these  are  the  problems. 

Instead,  there  had  been  only 
routine  description,  and  veiled 
hints  and  allusions. 

He  hadn’t  been  here  long,  he 
thought.  There  was  a lot  to  learn 
here  yet.  The  other  Terrans,  the 
ones  who  had  been  here  a long 
time,  knew  something  he  didn’t 
know.  He  could  tell  from  their 
faces,  from  their  attitude  toward 
him.  Cortland  didn’t  know,  or  he 
would  have  told  him,  and  some  of 
the  others  didn’t  either,  but  most 
of  them  did.  They  knew  something, 
but  whether  it  was  pleasant  or  un- 
pleasant knowledge,  he  couldn’t 
tell.  Whatever  it  was,  it  affected 
them.  They  neglected  their  work, 
and  they  had  a different  look  from 
the  Terrans  back  home. 

Jerwyn  had  known,  and  he 
hadn’t  told  him.  He’d  said  he’d 
have  to  live  here  to  find  out. 

He  lay  down  and  stretched  out 
wearily  on  the  bed. 

Well,  the  answers  here  exist,  he 
thought.  Somehow,  when  he  had 
all  the  pieces,  the  jigsaw  would 
have  to  fit  together  and  make  a 
coherent  picture. 

Maybe  he  was  looking  in  the 
wrong  direction. 

But  he  didn’t  know  where  to 
look. 

He  thought  of  the  day  he  had 
just  been  through,  remembering 
incident  after  incident  when  he 
had  had  all  he  could  do  to  keep 

39 


his  temper  under  control.  Annoy- 
ance welled  up  in  him  again,  as 
he  recalled  the  series  of  frustrations, 
the  useless  arguments. 

His  mind  was  still  revolving  in 
2in  upheaval  of  confusion  and  an- 
ger as  he  fell  asleep. 

IT  WAS  BARELY  past  dawn 
when  he  awoke.  He  tried  to  fall 
asleep  again  and  failed.  Giving  up, 
he  dressed  and  wandered  into  the 
other  room  and  the  garden  beyond. 
He  felt  the  early  morning  coolness 
slipping  over  his  shoulders  like  a 
garment,  and  a sense  of  the  futility 
of  all  his  struggling  filled  him.  He 
felt  a sudden  longing  to  rest,  bask 
in  the  sun,  live  as  the  natives  did 
in  sunny,  amiable  unconcern. 

He  stiffened,  annoyed  at  him- 
self. That  would  mean  giving  up 
everything  he  had  worked  so  hard 
for  all  his  life,  ending  up  as  a lazy 
failure.  He  felt  a surge  of  anger 
inside  him  toward  something  he 
could  hardly  name. 

As  he  stood  there,  he  saw  two 
Nemarian  children,  a boy  and  a 
girl  about  five  years  old,  emerge 
from  the  trees  and  begin  to  pick 
the  shimmering  flowers  in  the  gar- 
den. Irritation  rose  hotly  in  him. 
He  knew  that  it  was  out  of  propor- 
tion, built  out  of  a hundred  frus- 
trating incidents,  but  he  found  he 
didn’t  want  to  control  it.  He 
wanted  to  lash  out  at  somebody. 

“Stop  stealing  my  flowers!”  he 
yelled.  He  was  surprised  at  the 
harshness  of  his  own  voice. 

The  children  did  not  start  fear- 
fully or  run,  as  he  expected.  They 
turned  and  stared  at  him  in  an  un- 


concerned manner.  “You  can’t 
steal  flowers,”  the  boy  said  matter- 
of-factly.  “They  don’t  belong  to 
anybody.”  He  looked  at  Kirk  ques- 
tioningly.  “You  didn’t  plant  them, 
did  you?” 

Kirk  stared  at  him,  speechless. 

The  boy  went  on,  his  tone  slight- 
ly indignant.  “Anyway,  it’s  very 
rude  of  you  to  speak  to  us  like 
that!” 

“They  are  quite  right,”  an  an- 
gry voice  cut  in.  !l^rk  whirled 
around  to  find  Nanae  standing  be- 
side him,  a basket  in  her  hand. 
Her  hair,  radiant  in  the  sunlight, 
was  caught  back  from  her  face 
with  a green  ribbon,  and  the  brown, 
gold-flecked  eyes,  for  once,  were 
not  soft,  but  sparkling  with  anger. 
“These  are  my  sister’s  children,” 
she  said  icily.  “They  help  me  gather 
flowers  for  your  table.  Do  you 
think  just  because  they  are  young 
you  have  the  right  to  treat  them 
without  respect?” 

Staring  at  her  angry  face,  Kirk 
felt  his  own  anger  ebbing.  Into  his 
mind  a forgotten  incident  flashed 
back  from  his  childhood.  Through 
a door  left  ajar  in  a neighboring 
apartment  he  had  seen  a ripe 
purple  fruit  imported  from  a newly 
discovered  planet,  and  had  taken  it, 
curious  to  find  out  what  unsyn- 
thetic food  might  taste  like.  He  had 
been  discovered,  and  angrily 
whipped  and  locked  in  his  room. 
He  remembered  wiping  away  the 
tears,  alone  in  his  room,  smarting 
with  humiliation,  and  vowing  he 
would  show  them,  he  would  show 
them  all;  he  would  grow  up  to  be 
so  powerful  he  could  have  anything 
he  wanted,  and  everybody  would 


40 


be  afraid  of  him. 

He  looked  now  at  Nanae,  who 
had  put  an  arm  around  each  of 
the  children,  cradling  them  to  her. 
His  anger  left  him  completely.  Re- 
membering the  hurt  child  he  had 
once  been,  he  foimd  himself  long- 
ing for  the  touch  of  softness  and 
kindness  that  had  never  come  to 
him,  wishing  that  even  now  for  a 
moment  he  could  take  the  chil- 
dren’s place — lay  his  head  against 
her  breast,  and  feel  her  fold  him  in 
and  brush  her  hand  through  his 
hair.  He  felt  something  melting  in- 
side of  him.  He  could  feel  the  lines 
of  his  face  softening  as  he  looked 
at  them. 

The  words  stuck,  but  he  forced 
them  out.  “Fm  sorry.” 

“It’s  all  right,”  said  the  boy. 

Leaning  down,  Kirk  put  an  arm 
tentatively  around  each  of  the  chil- 
dren, half-surprised  at  himself  for 
the  gesture.  As  he  felt  their  small 
bodies  relax  against  his,  it  seemed 
as  though  some  deep  inner  tension 
began  to  flow  out  of  him.  He 
straightened  up  to  find  Nanae’s 
glance  on  him  surprisingly  warm, 
almost  tender.  The  approval  in  her 
eyes  filled  him  with  an  unfamiliar 
kind  of  happiness. 

“You  mean  Ross  spent  five  years 
here!”  Kirk  stared  in  amazement 
at  Cortland,  sitting  beside  him. 

The  older  officer  turned  toward 
him,  shifting  his  position  on  the 
grassy  ledge  to  which  they  had 
climbed  for  a look  at  the  surround- 
ing countryside.  “Yes,  that’s  right. 
Ross  was  straight  out  of  the  Insti- 
tute then,  had  an  A-1  record,  and 
this  place  had  just  been  discovered. 

42 


They  thought  then  it  might  have 
all  sorts  of  valuable  minerals  and 
things.  It  seemed  like  a great 
chance.”  He  shrugged.  “As  it 
turned  out,  of  course,  there  was 
nothing,  but  nobody  could  have 
known  then.” 

“They  know  now,”  Kirk  said 
shortly.  He  sat  looking  over  the 
valleys  beneath  them,  silent  for  a 
moment.  It  was  discouraging  to 
learn  Ross  had  been  here  and  had 
not  turned  up  anything:  Ross  was 
capable,  whatever  else  he  might 
be,  and  it  would  take  luck  as  well 
as  work  to  succeed  where  he  had 
failed.  And  his  luck  didn’t  seem  to 
be  working  out  too  well,  he 
thought,  unhappily. 

But  this  might  throw  some  new 
light  on  why  he’d  been  sent  here. 
Maybe  Ross’s  reason  for  sending 
the  Institute’s  star  pupil  had  been 
one  he  could  never  have  guessed 
at  the  time — a gesture  of  sentimen- 
tality. Maybe  he  wanted  to  help 
these  people  with  whom  he  had 
spent  his  first  years  as  an  Adminis- 
trator. Maybe  he  wanted  to  make 
up  for  his  own  failure  to  help  lift 
their  living  standairds. 

He  turned  toward  the  other  man. 
“Cortland,  you  say  you’ve  done  a 
lot  of  traveling  here.  How  about 
the  rest  of  the  planet?  Are  any  of 
the  other  villages  more  advanced; 
are  the  people  any  dififerent?” 

Cortland  laughed  shortly. 
“Thinking  of  hiring  yourself  a new 
native  staff?  Your  impatience 
about  worn  out  bucking  this  one? 
Can’t  say  I blame  you,  but  it’s  no 
go.  All  these  villages  are  the  same. 
One  outfit’s  as  bad  as  the  next.  Oh, 
they  go  in  for  different  things — 

APRIL  SMITH 


one  will  go  all  out  for  sculptures, 
one  will  be  great  on  weaving,  and 
another  one  maybe  will  grow  a 
special  kind  of  fruit.  But  the  people 
are  all  alike — all  equally  charming 
and  equally  impossible.  All  sweet 
and  friendly  on  the  surface  and 
stubborn  as  mules  underneath.  All 
acting  like  they  know  something 
they’re  not  talking  about,  like 
they’ve  got  some  secret  hidden  be- 
hind those  clear,  guileless  eyes  of 
theirs,  some  source  of  strength  that 
makes  them  able  to  tell  us  to  go 
to  hell — figuratively,  of  course — 
when  they  don’t  like  our  orders.” 
He  leaned  forward,  intently.  “I’d 
give  a lot  to  find  out  what  makes 
them  tick.”  A look  of  inseciurity, 
almost  of  anxiety  filled  his  eyes. 

A sudden  gust  of  wind  blew  a 
flurry  of  leaves  against  Kirk’s  face. 
He  brushed  them  away,  feeling 
chilled. 

Cortland  blinked  his  eyes,  and 
his  face  resumed  its  customary  firm 
look.  “But  to  get  back  to  your  ques- 
tion— this  village  here  is  supposed 
to  be  a center  of  government.  When 
the  Nemarians  have  to  decide  on 
anything  that  affects  the  whole 
planet,  the  Council  in  this  village 
does  it.  The  Council  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  Galactic  Union  set- 
up, of  course.  It’s  strictly  local,  was 
here  before  GU  discovered  this 
place.  You  probably  studied  up  on 
it  before  you  came  here.” 

Kirk  nodded.  Every  planet  with 
an  indigenous  population  had  its 
own  political  set-up.  It  was  GU 
policy  not  to  interfere  with  them, 
unless  their  interests  clashed  in 
some  way. 

Cortland  went  on.  “Anyone  who 

birthright 


likes  being  in  on  that  sort  of  thing 
packs  up  and  emigrates  to  this  vil- 
lage. I don’t  know  whether  you’ve 
noticed,  but  these  people  are  pretty 
casual  about  moving  from  one  town 
to  another.  Anyway,  when  your 
would-be  politician  gets  here,  the 
people  take  him  in  and  watch  him 
awhile,  and  then,  if  they  like  him 
all  right,  he’s  put  on  the  Council. 
What  a system!  The  truth  is,  most 
of  the  Nemarians  consider  political 
work  something  of  a nuisance  and 
would  just  as  soon  somebody  else 
did  it.  They  don’t  care  for  power 
the  way  we  do.  They  look  on  it  as 
just  a heavy  responsibility  and  a 
burden.” 

Kirk  shifted  his  leg  uncomforta- 
bly, feeling  a bit  self-conscious. 

“By  the  way,”  Cortland  added 
casually,  “how  are  you  getting  on 
with  that  girl?” 

“What  girl?” 

“That  beautiful  creature  who 
keeps  house  for  you.” 

“Nanae?” 

“Yes,  Nanae.  The  beauty  of  the 
village,  the  girl  who  cooks  break- 
fast for  you,  the  head  of  the  Coun- 
cil—” 

“What  did  you  say?  What  was 
that  about  the  Council?” 

“She’s  head  of  the  Council. 
Didn’t  you  know?” 

“How  can  she  be?  She’s  a maid, 
she—” 

“They  don’t  have  maids  here. 
She’s  being  neighborly.  And  they 
have  sort  of  a “power  corrupts” 
philosophy  here.  If  you’re  in  a posi- 
tion of  authority,  you’re  sort  of  ex- 
pected to  go  out  and  do  humble 
tasks  for  people  once  in  awhile,  so 
you  won’t  get  to  feeling  above  them. 

43 


These  people  like  to  keep  everyone 
on  the  same  low — ” 

“But  head  of  the  Council  !’*  Kirk 
broke  in.  “She’s  just  a young  girl!” 
“So  what?  You’re  just  a young 
man.” 

“But—” 

“Sorry  for  the  levity.  But  they 
let  women  do  everything  here. 
They’ve  got  equality  of  the  sexes, 
old  man.  They — ” 

We’d  better  be  starting  back,” 
Kirk  broke  in.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 

He  walked  silently  down  the  hill 
beside  Cortland,  his  head  whirling. 


WHEN  THEY  reached  the  vil- 
lage, he  left  Cortland  as 
quickly  as  he  could  and  hurried  in 
the  direction  of  his  house,  incoher- 
ent thoughts  tumbling  over  each 
other  in  his  mind.  His  face  burned 
as  he  remembered  his  condescen- 
sion, the  way  he  had  fought  his  de- 
sire for  her  by  holding  her  off  with 
curt  remarks,  indicating  with  raised 
eyebrows  that  he  wished  no  person- 
al conversation.  He  thought  of  the 
occasional  glint  of  amusement  he 
had  seen  breaking  through  her 
serene  courtesy. 

Why  had  she  kept  coming,  he 
wondered. 

He  saw,  with  a start,  that  he  was 
nearly  to  his  house,  and  he  realized 
he  had  been  hoping  Nanae  would 
be  there.  He  had  to  talk  to  her, 
though  he  had  no  idea  what  he 
would  say.  As  he  drew  closer,  he 
saw  a flicker  of  motion  inside  the 
porch. 

He  walked  forward  quietly,  and 
then  stood  a moment  watching  her, 
silently.  She  had  her  back  to  him 

44 


and  was  sweeping,  as  she  had  been 
that  first  time  he  saw  her.  Her 
thighs  were  wrapped  in  soft,  violet 
cloth,  and  a cascade  of  violet  flow- 
ers jeweled  the  lovely  hair  which 
rippled  and  swirled  down  her  back 
and  shoulders.  Not  a wasted  mo- 
tion, he  thought,  not  a gesture  that 
isn’t  beautififl.  He  wondered  why 
he  had  ever  felt  sweeping  a floor 
was  a menial  task.  She  moved  like 
a great  dancer. 

She  turned  as  he  watched  and 
saw  him.  “Hello.”  She  smiled,  and 
he  felt  himself  tremble  a little. 

“I  just  heard  about  you — about 
your  being  head  of  die  Council,” 
he  blurted  out.  “I  want  to  apolo- 
gize; I didn’t  know,  I — ” 

“What  difference  does  it  make?” 
She  looked  genuinely  puzzled. 

“I  thought  you  were  a maid,  a 
...  a sort  of  person  who  waits  on 
other  people,  on  Terra,”  he  tried 
to  explain.  “I  didn’t  know  you 
were  just  doing  this  to  be  kind.  I’ve 
been  very  rude.  I — I hardly  know 
what  to  say  . . .” 

Her  eyes  widened.  “Do  you  treat 
p>eople  who  clean  your  houses  on 
Terra  one  way  and  officials  anoth- 
er? You  are  funny,  you  Terrans.” 

“Yes,  I guess  we  are  funny.”  He 
searched  for  words.  “This  is  the 
first  time  I’ve  really  talked  to  you, 
isn’t  it?” 

She  smiled.  “We’ve  just  been 
people  in  the  same  room.”  She 
spoke  gently.  “I’ve  seen  you  were 
unhappy  and  confused  under  that 
roud  manner.  I wanted  to  help, 
ut  you  weren’t  ready  to  let  anyone 
help.” 

“Why  did  you  keep  coming?”  He 
waited  anxiously  for  her  answer. 

APRIL  SMITH 


“I  liked  you.”  Her  glance  was 
half-tender  and  a little  amused. 
“And  I knew  you  wanted  me  here, 
even  though  you  tried  not  to  show 
it.”  She  paused.  “There  was  anoth- 
er reason,  too.” 

“What  was  it?” 

“You  know  Marlin  Ross  lived 
here  once?”  He  nodded.  “Well, 
there  was  a note  from  him  on  the 
spaceship  you  came  on.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  my  father,  asking  him 
to  take  care  of  you.  He  and  Ross 
were  good  friends.  But  my  father  is 
dead  now,  and  so  the  letter  was 
given  to  me.” 

“And  so  you’ve  been  taking  care 
of  me.” 

“Yes.” 

“But  I’m  sure  he  didn’t  mean  it 
literally — taking  care  of  my  house 
and  fixing  my  food  and — ” 

“No,  of  course  not.  He  just  meant 
to  take  care  of  you,  give  you  what 
you  needed.  But  you  needed  this. 
You  needed  to  be  waited  on  a lit- 
tle.” 

“I  guess  I did.”  He  could  find 
nothing  adequate  to  say,  “Thank 
you.” 

There  was  a moment  of  silence. 

She  put  aside  the  broom,  which 
was  still  poised  in  one  hand.  “Let 
me  make  you  some  jen.  You  look 
tired.” 

“Thank  you.”  Kirk  sat  down, 
with  a deep  sigh,  and  leaned  back, 
watching  her  precise,  exquisite 
movements,  as  she  prepared  the 
hot  liquid.  He  found  himself  long- 
ing to  touch  her,  to  reach  out  and 
feel  the  soft,  supple  flesh,  the  rip- 
pling hair.  The  sight  of  her  beauti- 
ful, firm  breasts  moving  as  she 
worked  tortured  him.  The  low 

birthright 


necklace  that  signified  they  were 
covered  didn’t  work  very  well  for 
him,  he  thought.  The  flowers 
twined  into  it  kept  falling  aside  as 
she  bent  and  turned,  tantalizing 
him  more.  He  pulled  his  eyes  away, 
and  forced  himself  to  think  of  other 
things. 

She  had  been  very  kind,  he 
realized. 

She  hadn’t  made  him  feel  like  a 
fool. 


He  stood  waiting  for  the  last 
of  the  staff  to  assemble,  letting 
the  feel  of  triumph  course  through 
his  body.  He  felt  heady,  exultant, 
a little  drunk  with  joy.  This  was 
his  moment.  This  made  it  all  worth 
while — the  long  hours,  the  sleep- 
less nights,  the  relentless  work,  the 
struggle.  They  would  see.  They 
would  see  he  hadn’t  been  driving 
himself  and  them  for  nothing. 

He  stared  down  for  a moment  at 
the  piece  of  ore  which  he  had 
brought  to  show  them.  It  contained 
unpolished  zenites. 

Nemar  possessed  zenites,  the  fab- 
ulous gems  valued  all  over  the  gal- 
axy for  their  shimmering,  glowing 
beauty  of  changing  color.  Infinitely 
more  precious  and  rare  than  dia- 
monds, they  served  often  as  a ga- 
lactic medium  of  exchange,  where 
weight  was  important.  A handful  of 
them  could  be  worth  the  whole 
cargo  of  a trading  ship. 

He  was  not  surprised  that  no  one 
had  found  the  ore  deposits  before. 
They  were  the  products  of  immense 
and  peculiar  pressures  and  no  ap- 
preciable amount  of  the  ore  was 
ever  found  except  very  deep  under- 

45 


ground.  He  was  very  glad  now  he 
had  specialized  in  geology  and 
minerology  instead  of  social  struc- 
ture and  alien  psychology.  Other- 
wise, the  geologic  reports  he  had  re- 
ceived of  the  area  would  have 
seemed  perfectly  routine  and  or- 
dinary. The  nagging  feeling  that 
there  was  something  a little  unusual 
about  the  soil  analysis  would  never 
have  come  into  consciousness  as  a 
definite,  tremulous  hunch. 

He  could  have  sent  Cortland  or 
one  of  the  others  out  there  with  the 
tools  and  instruments  to  dig  and 
make  test  after  test,  searching  sev- 
eral feet  under  the  surface  for  the 
elusive  end-trail  of  a lode.  But  he 
had  wanted  to  go  himself.  He  had 
packed  and  prepared  for  the  two- 
day  trip,  steeling  himself  against 
the  disappointment  he  was  almost 
sure  to  receive. 

He  looked  at  the  faces  of  his 
staff*  members,  all  present  now, 
thinking  of  that  first  meeting  with 
them  and  the  peculiar  reception  his 
plans  had  received.  Now  it  would 
be  different:  now  everything  he  had 
asked  of  them  was  justified. 

Drawing  a long  breath,  he  began 
to  tell  them  what  had  happened. 

As  he  went  on,  his  fiery  enthu- 
siasm began  to  waver.  His  voice 
boomed  too  loudly  in  the  quiet 
room.  Once  or  twice  his  words  fal- 
tered, as  he  glanced  at  the  dispas- 
sionate face  of  a native.  As  he 
finished,  he  looked  around,  a sense 
of  dismay  and  fear  creeping  into 
his  feeling  of  triumph. 

They  had  listened  too  quietly. 
Only  Cortland  and  a few  other 
Terrans  had  shown  any  indication 
of  the  excitement  and  jubilation  he 

46 


expected.  The  others  seemed  un- 
impressed and  imdistiurbed.  With  a 
sinldng  feeling  in  the  pit  of  his 
stomach,  he  called  for  discussion. 

There  was  a pause.  Finally,  one 
of  the  older  Nemarians  spoke.  “This 
is  a very  important  matter.  If  these 
mines  are  put  into  operation,  it  will 
affect  the  lives  of  everyone  on  Ne- 
mar.  I must  ask  that  you  give  us  a 
little  time  to  tliink  over  the  im- 
plications.” 

He  spoke  courteously,  but  Kirk 
knew  the  request  would  have  to  be 
respected.  He  wanted  to  shout  at 
them,  to  ask  them  to  understand 
this  wonderful  thing  that  had  hap- 
pened, to  tell  them  they  were  going 
to  be  rich!  But  this  was  the  way 
they  did  things,  and  tliis  was  the 
way  it  would  have  to  be  done.  He 
pushed  down  the  impatience  burn- 
ing in  him.  “Will  a day  do?” 

The  Nemarian  hesitated  a mo- 
ment, then  nodded.  “Very  well.  A 
day  should  be  enough.” 

fCirk  watched  them  file  out  a few 
minutes  later.  He  wondered  where 
his  sense  of  elation  had  gone. 

Apprehension  filled  him  again  as 
he  watched  the  staff  assemble  die 
next  morning.  The  faces  of  the 
Nemarian  members  increased  his 
discomfort.  Why  didn’t  they  look 
happier,  more  excited?  Why  should 
they  look  at  him  with  that  un- 
spoken sympathy  in  their  eyes.  He 
was  afraid  to  hear  what  they  had  to 
say. 

The  native  who  had  spoken  the 
day  before  moved  forward  a little. 
“We’re  very  sorry,”  he  said  gently. 
Kirk  felt  his  heart  sinking.  “We 
realize  that  you  have  worked  very 

APRIL  SMITH 


hard  in  what  you  consider  to  be 
our  interests.  We  hoped  you  would 
come  up  with  something  more  ac- 
ceptable than  these  mines.  But  we 
cannot  put  the  plans  for  mining 
these  gems  of  yours  into  operation. 
We  are  very  sorry,”  he  said  again, 
“but  the  Council  has  voted  against 
it.” 

“The  Council!”  Kirk  stared  at 
him.  He  fought  to  control  his  voice. 
“You  know  perfectly  well  that  the 
power  of  my  command  is  supreme 
over  any  local  councils  of  whatever 
natime.”  He  stiffened.  “But  that 
isn’t  the  point.  I guess  I haven’t 
made  things  clear  to  you  somehow. 
These  gems — ^which  you  refer  to  as 
if  they  were  a child’s  baubles — can 
make  this  insignificant  planet  a 
power  in  the  galaxy.  They  can 
make  the  name  of  Nemar  respected 
throughout  the  whole  Galactic 
Union.  You  can  trade  them.”  He 
spoke  each  word  slowly  and  care- 
fully as  if  he  were  explaining  to  a 
child.  “I’m  not  haying  expensive 
machinery  constructed  and  sending 
you  down  hundreds  of  feet  into  the 
ground  so  that  your  women  can 
wear  these  jewels.  They’re  extreme- 
ly pretty,  but  you  probably  feel  the 
flowers  the  girls  pluck  and  put  in 
their  hair  do  just  as  well  for  orna- 
ments, and  perhaps  you’re  right.” 

He  paused,  trying  to  hold  on  to 
his  temper.  “It  will  be  dark  and 
dusty  and  uncomfortable  down  in 
those  mines,  as  I told  you  yesterday 
when  you  asked  about  it.  It  will  be 
hard  work,  and  I know  you’re  not 
fond  of  hard  work.”  He  could  not 
keep  the  sarcasm  out  of  his  voice. 
“But  I assure  you,  it  will  be  worth 
it.  A really  good  specimen  of  one 

BIRTHRIGHT 


of  these  little  gems  (he  underlined 
the  word)  can  buy  half  the  cargo 
of  a spaceship.  These  jewels  can 
make  it  worthwhile  for  the  great 
trading  ships  to  swarm  through 
space  out  to  this  isolated  fragment 
of  the  cosmos.  You  can  acquire  the 
technologies  of  other  planets  with 
them.  The  evolution  of  this  planet 
can  be  speeded  up  a dozen  times. 
You  can  become  of  importance  in 
the  scheme  of  things,  leave  this 
backward,  primitive  way  of  life  be- 
hind you.” 

As  he  paused  for  breath,  one  of 
the  Nemarians  spoke  quietly.  “We 
don’t  want  to  push  ahead  that  fast.” 
He  looked  at  Kirk  serenely.  “We 
are  interested  in  improving  con- 
ditions here,  of  course.  We  want  to 
acquire  things  that  will  make  our 
lives  more  pleasant  and  luxurious. 
Some  day  we  wish  to  become  a 
highly  developed  society,  techno- 
logically. We  wish  growth  and 
change — but  only  very  slowly,  very 
carefully.  We  want  to  be  very,  very 
sure  we  do  not  bring  in  pain  when 
we  bring  in  new  pleasures.  We 
need  to  study  each  new  change  to 
see  what  it  might  mean.”  He 
paused.  “In  this  case,  it  took  very 
little  study.  This  mining  project 
would  mean  the  young  men  would 
be  put  to  backbreaking  labor  in  un- 
derground, unhealthy  conditions. 
There  might  be  circumstances 
which  could  justify  such  a thing. 
But  not  for  jewels  which  are  in- 
trinsically worthless.” 

“Worthless!  I just  told  you — 

“I  mean  they  are  not  valuable  in 
themselves.  You  can  make  cheap, 
synthetic  jewels  that  are  almost  as 
beautiful,  can’t  you?” 

47 


“YeSj  of  course,  but — ” 

“So  they  are  only  valuable  be- 
cause they  are  rare,  because  you 
call  them  valuable,  because  they 
show  the  people  who  buy  them 
have  enough  money  to  buy  them. 
Wearing  them  is  really  a way  of 
saying,  Fm  rich,  to  everyone  who 
sees  you.”  He  shrugged.  “We  don’t 
care  about  that  sort  of  thing  here.” 

Kirk  clenched  his  fists  in  frustra- 
tion. Maybe  he  should  have  special- 
ized in  alien  psychology.  He  made 
another  try.  “I  know  you  don’t. 
That’s  not  the  point.  The  point  is 
that  you  can  trade  them  for  other 
things,  for — ” 

The  older  native  who  had  an- 
nounced the  Council  decision  broke 
in  again.  “As  you  said,  the  mining 
is  very  hard,  disagreeable  work.  We 
feel  that  when  you  begin  to  do  dis- 
agreeable things  for  an  end  that  is 
not  valuable  in  itself,  you  are  be- 
ginning to  tread  a dangerous  path. 
There  is  no  telling  where  it  will 
end.  One  such  situation  leads  to 
another.  We  might  end  up  cooped 
up  in  a room  all  day,  shut  away 
from  the  sun  and  air,  turning  bolts 
on  an  assembly  line  to  make  ma- 
chines, as  we  have  heard  often  hap- 
pens on  Terra.”  He  looked  slightly 
shocked  at  the  picture.  “Being  sur- 
rounded by  technical  conveniences 
isn’t  worth  that.”  He  looked  at 
ELirk  patiently,  as  though  this 
should  be  self-evident.  “On  Terra 
and  on  most  of  the  other  planets 
we  have  had  word  of,  people  seem 
to  spend  their  time  making  all 
kinds  of  things  that  have  no  value  in 
themselves,  because  they  can  be 
sold  or  traded.  Other  people  spend 
their  time  trying  to  persuade  peo- 

48 


pie  to  buy  these  useless  things.  Still 
other  people  spend  all  day  making 
records  of  how  many  of  these  thin^ 
have  been  sold.  No!  This  path  is 
not  for  us.”  He  shook  his  head. 
“We  don’t  know  how  it  came  about 
that  all  these  people  spend  their 
time  at  these  unpleasant,  useless 
things.  They  can’t  have  wanted  it 
that  way.  No  human  being  could 
want  to  spend  his  time  doing  silly, 
pointless  Aings.  How  could  you  be- 
lieve in  yourself?  How  could  you 
walk  proudly?  How  could  you  ex- 
plain it  to  your  children?  We  must 
be  careful  not  to  make  the  mistake 
of  taking  the  first  step  in  that  di- 
rection.” 

Kirk  felt  hopelessly  confused. 
The  reasoning  was  all  wrong,  but 
how  coiJd  he  explain  it  to  them? 

He  began  slowly,  from  another 
angle  . . . 


He  stood  there  for  a long 
time  after  they  had  left,  try- 
ing to  control  his  rage.  He  had 
tried  everything  he  could  think  of. 
He  had  argued,  reasoned,  pleaded 
with  them.  He  had  raged  at  them, 
threatened  them.  Nothing  had 
worked. 

The  threats  had  not  disturbed 
them. 

He  thought  of  sending  out  an 
emergency  beam  for  help.  But  what 
would  he  say  when  the  ship  ar- 
rived : put  these  people  under  mar- 
tial law — ^force  them  to  work — it’s 
for  their  own  good?  He’d  like  to 
see  if  they  could  do  it,  he  thought. 
He’d  be  betting  they  couldn’t. 

He  paced  up  and  down,  clench- 
ing his  fists. 


APRIL  SMITH 


He  could  have  all  the  council 
members  jailed,  he  thought.  Only 
there  weren’t  any  jails  on  Nemar. 

Resentment  burned  in  him. 
They’d  let  him  work  and  struggle 
and  slave  day  and  night — for  this. 
He  swung  his  fist  into  the  wall  sud- 
denly, with  all  his  might.  The  pain 
stung,  but  he  felt  a little  better. 

He  looked  at  the  bruised  hand, 
wondering  what  to  do.  He  was  too 
restless  to  go  home  and  stay  by  him- 
self, burning  up  with  unspent  rage ; 
and  he  certainly  couldn’t  go  and  sit 
among  the  natives,  listening  to  them 
chatter  and  laugh. 

He  decided  to  take  a walk. 

He  heard  a rustle  of  leaves  after 
he  had  gone  a little  way  and  saw 
a pair  of  feminine  legs  through  the 
underbrush.  He  tried  to  turn  aside. 
He  didn’t  feel  like  talking  to  Jean- 
nette now. 

But  she  had  already  seen  him. 
“Hello,  there,”  she  said,  pushing 
aside  a branch  from  where  she  was 
sitting.  “Are  you  taking  a walk, 
too?  Thought  you  were  always 
sticking  to  the  old  grindstone  this 
time  of  day.” 

“Hello,  Jeannette.” 

“Sit  down  and  rest  for  a minute. 
I need  some  company.” 

He  hesitated,  then  sat  down  re- 
luctantly. 

“You  don’t  look  too  cheerful,” 
she  said,  looking  at  him.  “Some- 
thing eating  you?” 

“Just  this  place,”  he  said  wearily. 
“And  the  people.” 

“Yes,  it  gets  you  after  a while, 
doesn’t  it?  It’s  pretty  hard  to  take.” 
He  leaned  against  a tree  and 
tried  to  relax. 

“It’s  hard  to  live  with,”  she  went 
BIRTHRIGHT 


on,  “the  constant  sense  of  inferi- 
ority . . .” 

He  wondered  if  he  had  heard  her 
correctly.  “What  did  you  say?” 

“I  said,  it’s  hard  to  live  with.” 
“No,  no.  I meant  the  last  part.” 
“The  constant  sense  of  inferi- 
ority. Is  something  the  ma — ” 
“What  are  you  talking  about?” 
“I’m  talking  about  the  Nemar- 
ians,  naturally.” 

“You  surely  don’t  consider  them 
superior  to  us!”  he  said  incred- 
ulously. 

“Let’s  not  fool  ourselves,”  she 
said.  “There  isn’t  one  of  them  that 
isn’t  superior  to  every  Terran  here.” 
He  stared  at  her. 

“Of  course,  we  do  fool  ourselves. 
I’ve  been  doing  it  a long  time.  Or 
trying  to,  anyway.  But  I’ve  been 
sitting  here  thinking.  Among  other 
things,  about  why  I didn’t  leave 
on  that  ship  you  came  on,  as  I’d 
planned.” 

“Why  didn’t  you?”  he  asked. 

The  same  reason  nobody  else 
did,  but  Jerwyn;  and  he  had  to.” 
“Plenty  of  them  don’t  like  it 
here,”  he  said.  “There’s  plenty  of 
griping.” 

“Not  really,”  she  said.  “It’s  not 
really  griping.  It’s  just  a way  of 
making  yourself  feel  better.  Only 
the  ones  who  haven’t  been  here  too 
long  do  it,  and  one  or  two  others 
who  are  real  old-line  die-hards,  like 
your  Mr.  Cortland. 

“Why  didn’t  you  leave?” 
“Because  this  is  a good  deal,  of 
course.  The  climate’s  lovely;  the 
scenery’s  beautiful;  life  is  sort  of 
a perpetual  pleasure  outing.  The 
only  trouble  is,  you’re  always  on  the 
fringes-  You’re  the  kid  from  across 

49 


the  tracks.” 

“I  don’t  understand.” 

“That  wasn’t  the  right  phrase, 
because  that  implies  snobbishness, 
and  they’re  not  snobbish.  But  they 
don’t  quite  accept  you.  They  let 
you  hang  around;  they  let  you  play 
with  them.  But  you’re  not  really 
one  of  them.” 

“Why  on  earth  should  you  want 
to  be  one  of  them!  They’re  just 
a bunch  of  ignorant  primitives, 
while  we  come  from  the  highest 
center  of  culture  civilization  has 
ever  attained.” 

“Yes,  yes,  I know  all  that.  We’re 
very  good  at  pushing  buttons  and 
keeping  in  the  right  traffic  lanes. 
But  let’s  look  the  facts  in  the  face. 
I’ve  been  sitting  here  making  my- 
self look  the  facts  in  the  face.  Have 
you  ever  seen  one  of  them  act 
mean?” 

“Well,  not  mean  exactly,  but — ” 
“No,  you  haven’t.  They  can  get 
plenty  angry,  but  they  don’t  get 
mean.  There’s  a difference.” 

He  said  nothing. 

“Have  you  ever  seen  a child  here 
tear  the  wings  off  an  insect?”  She 
went  on,  not  waiting  for  his  reply. 
“No,  you  haven’t.  And  you  won’t. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a native  with  a 
hard,  cruel  face?  No,  again.  Have 
you  ever  seen  one  that  wasn’t 
gentle  with  children?” 

“I  guess  not.  I never  thought 
about  it.” 

She  turned  to  him  with  an  odd 
tremulousness  in  her  face,  replacing 
her  usual  cynical  look  and  slightly 
raised  eyebrows.  “They  love  their 
children  here.  They  really  love 
them.”  She  looked  at  him.  “They 
don’t  scey  they  love  them  and  then 

50 


hit  them  and  humiliate  them  be- 
cause they  accidentally  break  the 
vase  Aunt  Matilda  gave  the  family 
for  Christmas.  Their  child’s  happi- 
ness means  more  to  them  than  any 
vase,  than  any  material  object. 
They  never  humiliate  their  chil- 
dren. That’s  why  they  grow  up  to 
walk  like  kings  and  queens. 

“They  grow  up  being  loved,” 
she  said.  “They  all  love  each  other. 
And  it  isn’t  because  they  try.  They 
don’t  try  to  be  good  and  nice  and 
love  their  fellow-men,  like  we  do. 
It’s  just  something  that  flows  out 
of  them.  They’re  full  of  wsirmth  in- 
side, and  it  flows  out. 

“And  something  else — ” she  went 
on.  “Have  you  ever  caught  one  in 
a lie?” 

“No,  but  that  doesn’t  mean — ” 

“People  like  your  Mr.  Cortland 
think  they’re  sly  and  deceptive  be- 
cause they’re  always  courteous,  and 
still  you  can’t  push  them  around. 
But  he’s  wrong.  They’re  courteous 
because  they’re  sorry  for  us,  not  be- 
cause they’re  afraid  of  us.” 

“Sorry  for  us?” 

“Yes,  sorry  for  us.  They’re  sorry 
for  us  because  we  don’t  know  how 
to  enjoy  life,  because  we  worry 
about  all  sorts  of  things  that  don’t 
matter,  and  knock  ourselves  out 
working,  and  need  other  people  to 
reassure  us  of  our  own  worth.  Be- 
cause we  have  bad  tempers  and 
awkward  bodies,  and  we  don’t  have 
that  warmth  inside  of  us  flowing 
out  toward  other  people. 

“Even  toward  us,”  she  said. 
“They’re  kind  to  us.  They’re  toler- 
ant. They  want  us  to  happy. 
And  they  do  accept  us  eventually. 
If  we  stay  here  enough  years.  If  we 

APRIL  SMITH 


change.  Maybe  not  quite  as  one  of 
them,  but  silmost.  Sometimes  they 
even  marry  us.” 

Kirk  shook  his  head,  trying  to 
clear  it.  “I  can’t  think.  I feel  con- 
fused, I — ” 

“Still  thinking  about  our  great 
technological  achievements?  We’re 
pretty  cocky  about  them,  aren’t 
we?  We  come  here  all  set  to  spread 
enlightenment  among  the  savages.” 
She  shrugged.  “They’re  not  im- 
pressed with  our  magic  machines. 
They’re  not  selling  their  planet  for 
a handful  of  beads.  They  took  a 
good  look  at  us  and  decided  to  try 
to  keep  what  they  had.” 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  “Per- 
sonally, I’ve  decided  I can  do  with- 
out the  vidar-shows.  I’m  going  to 
stay  and  try  to  make  the  grade 
here.  I’m  going  to  work  at  be- 
coming a better  human  being.  I’m 
tired  of  being  flippant  and  smart 
and  sophisticated.  I’d  like  to  be 
happy.”  She  paused.  “Maybe  a 
Nemarian  will  even  fall  in  love 
with  me  eventually  and  marry  me.” 

“You  want  to  marry  one  of 
them!” 

“You  catch  on  fast.”  She  blinked. 
“Sorry.  That’s  not  a very  good  be- 
ginning. It’s  going  to  take  awhile 
to  shake  that  flippancy.”  She 
caught  his  eyes.  “Wouldn’t  you  like 
to  marry  Nanae?” 

He  didn’t  answer. 

She  smiled  oddly.  “Yes,  I’d  like 
to  marry  one  of  them  and  have 
children  like  theirs.”  She  hesitated. 
“I  said  once,  they  spoil  their  chil- 
dren rotten.  I guess  they  do  in  a 
way,  but  the  children  turn  out  fine. 
We  Terrans  just  aren’t  used  to  chil- 
dren with  a sense  of  their  rights. 

BIRTHRIGHT 


These  children  overwhelm  me.” 
She  lowered  her  eyes.  “You  know 
how  flippant  I am — ^when  I try  it 
in  their  presence  I feel  terribly 
stupid.  They  make  me  aware  of 
every  affectation;  their  eyes  are  so 
clear — like  a deer’s — I feel  like  a 
fool.”  She  looked  at  him  tremulous- 
ly, defensively.  “Anyway,  I said  that 
about  their  being  spoiled,  out  of 
envy.  When  I first  saw  how  their 
mothers  held  them — all  that  tender- 
ness, all  that  love,  all  that  warmth 
— I envied  them  with  a terrible  bit- 
terness. It  wasn’t  that  I had  bad 
parents.  Just  ordinary  ones,  trying 
to  do  their  best  and  all  that.” 

“Why  do  you  keep  talking  about 
children  all  the  time?  After  all,  it’s 
the  adults  who  run  things.” 

“The  children  are  the  adults  of 
the  future.  It’s  the  way  they’re 
brought  up  that  makes  these  people 
what  they  are.  You  and  I — all  of  us 
from  Terra — we’ve  been  brought 
up  on  a limited,  scientifically  reg- 
imented, controlled  amount  of  love. 
These  natives  have  something  we’ll 
never  have.  We’ve  got  to  work  and 
strive  for  what  comes  as  naturally 
to  them  as  breathing.” 

As'  she  spoke,  Kirk  suddenly  re- 
membered the  close-packed  faces 
of  Terrans  speeding  by  in  the  op- 
posite direction  on  the  moving  side- 
walks at  home — tense  faces,  hard 
faces,  resigned  faces,  sad  faces,  tim- 
id faces,  worried  faces.  Maybe  one 
in  fifty  serene  and  self-confident, 
maybe  one  in  a hundred  vibrantly, 
joyously  alive.  Maybe.  Probably  not 
that  many. 

He  thought  of  the  faces  of  the 
Nemarians. 

Jeannette  was  still  talking.  “They 

51 


arc  what  human  beings  should  be,” 
she  said  slowly.  “Somehow  theyVe 
kept  their  birthright — the  ability  to 
be  full  of  the  joy  of  living  when- 
ever they’re  not  in  real  trouble  or 
sorrow,  the  ability  to  be  happy  just 
because  they’re  alive.  I haven’t  un- 
derstood these  people  because  I 
didn’t  want  to  understand  them. 
I didn’t  want  to  see  that  they  were 
better  than  I am.  They’re  very 
simple,  really;  it’s  we  who  are  com- 
plicated and  devious.” 

^‘Why  hasn’t  anybody  ever  heard 
of  this  place?”  Kirk  asked. 

“It’s  isolated,”  she  said,  “and 
people  don’t  leave  here,  once 
they’ve  seen  what’s  here.  They 
don’t  write  too  much,  either,  be- 
cause by  the  time  the  spaceship 
arrives  again,  they  understand. 
They  cooperate  with  the  author- 
ities, who  are  trying  to  keep  this 
place  as  much  of  a secret  as  pos- 
sible. Publicize  it,  and  within  ten 
years  it  would  be  swarming  with 
wealthy  businessmen  on  vacation 
and  jaded  neurotics  trying  to  get 
away  from  it  all.  The  Nemarians 
would  be  lost  in  the  shuffle.” 

She  was  still  a moment.  “My 
husband  came  here  to  get  away 
from  it  all.  He  heard  rumors  of 
this  place  a long  way  off  and  traced 
them.  I didn’t  want  to  come.  I 
liked  cities  and  night-clubs;  I liked 
being  surrounded  by  amiable, 
promiscuous  men.  He  dragged  me 
here  against  my  will.  Now  he’s 
dead,  and  I’m  caught  up  in  his 
dreams.  These  people  are  irresist- 
ible; they  call  out  to  something 
basic  and  deep  in  you,  and  you 
respond  to  it  whether  you  want  to 
or  not.  You  can’t  leave  this  place 


— unless  you  have  to.  like  you 
will.” 

Kirk  stood  up  abruptly.  “Jean- 
nette, do  you  mind?  I feel  terribly 
confused.  A lot  has  happened  to 
me  today.  I want  to  walk  alone 
awhile  and  think  things  out.” 

She  nodded,  with  a sudden  look 
of  compassion. 


He  walked  away  from  her 
slowly,  turning  half  uncon- 
sciously in  the  direction  of  his 
house.  His  mind  was  a swirl  of  con- 
fusion. He  tried  to  think.  He 
needed  to  get  it  all  straightened 
out. 

The  sense  of  inferiority,  she’d 
said,  the  constant  sense  of  inferi- 
ority. Let’s  not  fool  ourselves,  she’d 
said.  There  isn’t  one  of  them  that 
isn’t  superior  to  every  Terran  here. 

And  he’d  just  sat  there,  stupefied, 
not  denying  it. 

Because  once  it  was  spoken,  put 
into  words,  it  had  a certain  right- 
ness. A certain  obviousness.  He’d 
known  it  all  the  time. 

He  hadn’t  let  himself  know  it, 
though.  He’d  struggled  against  it, 
choking  it  back  when  it  started 
seeping  up  from  his  unconscious. 
He’d  worked  so  hard  and  kept  him- 
self so  busy  and  exhausted  he  didn’t 
have  time  to  think.  He’d  thought  so 
hard  about  other  things  he  didn’t 
have  time  to  think  about  the  truth. 

He’d  arrived  here  looking  for  the 
answer  to  a mystery.  Thinking  may- 
be the  planet  had  a secret  value, 
hoping  maybe  it  held  an  explosive 
or  new  weapon  that  was  classified 
as  Super  Top  Secret,  wondering 
if  maybe  it  weren’t  really  primitive. 


52 


And  nobody  could  have  told 
him:  it  does  have  a secret  value — 
secret  because  you’re  too  blind  to 
see  it.  Nobody  could  have  told  him ; 
these  people  are  more  advanced 
than  you  are.  Because  advanced 
meant  machines.  Advanced  didn’t 
mean  happy,  loving,  graceful,  cou- 
rageous, honest. 

They  couldn’t  have  told  him 
with  words  if  he  couldn’t  see  it 
with  his  eyes — ^if  he  couldn’t  see 
that  the  glowing  faces  of  the  na- 
tives held  a secret  worth  learning. 

The  only  secret  that  really  mat- 
tered. 

How  to  be  happy. 

Nanae  was  there  waiting  when 
he  reached  the  house,  as  though 
she  had  been  expecting  him. 

She  looked  at  him  silently,  then 
smiled.  “You’re  not  angry?” 

“Angry?” 

“About  the  Council  decision.” 

“Oh— oh,  I was.  I’m  all  mixed 
up  now.  I’ve  been  doing  some 
thinking.” 

She  looked  at  him  intently,  then 
nodded  slowly.  “Do  you  know  why 
you  were  sent  here?”  she  asked. 

“I’m  just  beginning  to  get  a glim- 
mering of  it.” 

“Did  you  know  we  are  the  only 
planet  yet  discovered  whose  people 
have  never  known  war?” 

“No,  I didn’t  know.” 

“Ross  came  to  Nemar  when  the 
Galactic  Union  first  discovered  it. 
He  didn’t  find  any  of  the  things  he 
was  looking  for,  but  he  did  dis- 
cover something  else,  a way  of  life.” 
She  paused.  “Have  you  ever  gone 
over  his  record?” 

“No.” 


“You  should,  sometime.  He’s 
done  a great  deal  of  good.”  She 
looked  at  him  steadily,  her  eyes 
clear  and  soft.  “He  keeps  sending 
the  very  best  of  the  Institute  grad- 
uates here,  hoping  they’ll  study  our 
society  and  work  out  some  theories 
about  what  makes  us  the  way  we 
are.  He  hopes  some  of  the  happi- 
ness here  can  be  transplanted. 

“We  don’t  know  why  we’re  the 
way  we  are.  We  don’t  even  know 
how  it’s  possible  to  be  any  other 
way,  and  we  don’t  understand  why 
anyone  should  be  willing  to  fight 
wars,  or  why  they  should  lie  or  hit 
their  children  or  make  long 
speeches  that  don’t  say  anything.” 

Kirk  was  silent. 

“We’re  inside  the  problem,”  she 
said.  “We  can’t  see  ourselves  from 
the  outside.” 

Kirk  spoke  very  slowly,  thinking 
it  out.  “You  mean,  Ross  sent  me 
here  to  study  you,  to  try  to  find  out 
what  factors  are  involved  in — 

“Yes.  He  sent  you  here  to  learn.” 

He  was  quiet,  digesting  that. 

“One  day  you’ll  be  in  Ross’s 
place,”  she  said. 

He  accepted  the  words  quietly, 
knowing  it  was  true. 

Yesterday,  that  would  have 
seemed  like  the  most  desirable  thing 
in  the  universe,  the  height  of  hap- 
piness. 

It  seemed  like  a long  time  ago. 

It  meant  nothing  now  but  a 
heavy  burden. 

He  sat  thinking  of  Nanae  after 
she  had  gone,  of  how  he  had 
longed  to  put  his  arms  around  her 
and  draw  her  to  him,  kiss  the  soft 
mouth,  run  his  hands  through  the 
long,  glowing  strands  of  hair. 


BIRTHRIGHT 


53 


He’d  have  to  work  first,  work  at  He  wondered  whether  she’d  be 
changing  himself,  becoming  the  willing  to  go  to  Terra  with  him. 
kind  of  person  she  could  love.  She  He  got  up  and  moved  toward 
would  love  differently  and  more  the  bedroom.  Tomorrow  was  going 
deeply  than  the  girls  he  had  known,  to  be  a busy  day — changing  things. 
She  would  love  with  a passion  and  making  apologies.  Feasting.  Danc- 
tenderness  they’d  never  be  capable  ing.  Going  midnight  swimming, 
of.  That  kind  of  love  would  have  He  realized  suddenly  that  he  was 
to  be  earned.  very  happy.  • • • 


WORTH  CITING 

RECENT  STATISTICS  compiled  by  the  United  States  Depart- 
ment of  Labor  have  shown  that  it  costs  American  industry  about 
$2,500,000,000  each  year  for  research  which  enables  it  to  give 
you  deadlier  insecticides,  better  weed  killers,  more  efficient  and 
smoother-riding  cars,  more  rugged  home  appliances,  better  surgi- 
cal instruments,  more  sensitive  radio  and  television  sets  and  the 
host  of  other  newer  developments  that  are  easing  the  burden  of 
life  for  the  men  and  women  of  today.  Add  to  this  another 
$1,250,000,000  for  research  in  the  development  of  better  planes 
for  your  son  in  the  Air  Force,  or  warmer  uniforms  for  the  boys 
in  the  Army,  or  better  life  rafts  for  the  sailor  and  his  buddies,  or 
safer  landing  craft  for  the  Marines.  The  bill  adds  up  to  the 
staggering  total  of  $3,750,000,000  a year  just  to  keep  American 
life  improving! 

It  takes  96,000  research  engineers  and  scientists  laboring  over 
test  tubes  and  slide  rules,  blue  prints  and  calculators,  weather 
instruments  and  cyclotrons  to  produce  these  gimmicks  and 
gadgets.  And  industry  gets  the  utmost  from  these  researchers 
by  supplying  them  with  a staff  of  technicians.  About  143,000 
supporting  workers  are  busily  engaged  in  twirling  knobs,  taking 
hourly  readings  and  running  series  of  long,  routine  tests.  In  short, 
research  in  this  country  is  a big  and  costly  business.  And  the 
organizational  technique  is  such  that  it  can  help  the  country  over 
industrial  humps  and  bottlenecks  created  by  war,  famine,  plague 
and  cataclysm. 

Our  Citation  this  month  goes  to  the  researchers,  those  men  and 
women  of  American  industry,  who  conceive  and  make  the  ma- 
chines and  instruments  and  products  that  make  the  standard  of 
living  in  this  country  the  finest  in  the  world. 


54 


BY  WILLARD  MARSH 


They  were  used  to  retarded  life  forms,  but  this  was  the  worst. 


Yet  it  is  a missionary's  duty  to  bring  light  where  there  is  none. 


for  who  can  tell  what  deviotis  forms  evolution  might  take? 


the  ethicators 


The  missionaries  came  out 

of  the  planetary  system  of  a 
star  they  didn’t  call  Antares.  They 
called  it,  naturally  enough,  The 
Sun — ^just  as  home  was  Earth,  Ter- 
ra, or  simply  The  World.  And 
naturally  enough,  being  the  ascend- 
ant animal  on  Earth,  they  called 
themselves  human  beings.  They 
were  looking  for  extraterrestrial 
souls  to  save. 

They  had  no  real  hope  of  find- 
ing humans  like  themselves  in  this 
wonderously  diversified  universe. 
But  it  wasn’t  against  all  probability 
that,  in  their  rumaging,  there 


might  not  be  a humanoid  species 
to  whom  they  could  reach  down  a 
helping  paw;  some  emergent  cous- 
in with  at  least  a rudimentary  sym- 
metry from  snout  to  tail,  and 
hence  a rudimentary  soul. 

The  ship  they  chose  was  a com- 
pact scout,  vaguely  resembling  the 
outside  of  an  orange  crate — except 
that  they  had  no  concept  of  an 
orange  crate  and,  being  a tesseract, 
it  had  no  particular  outside.  It  was 
simply  an  expanding  cube  (and  as 
such,  quite  roomy)  whose  “interi- 
or” was  always  paralleling  its  “ex- 
terior” (or  attempting  to),  in  ac- 


55 


cordance  with  all  the  well-known, 
basic  and  irrefutable  laws  on  the 
subject. 

A number  of  its  sides  occupied 
the  same  place  at  the  same  time, 
giving  a hypothetical  spectator  the 
illusion  of  looking  down  merging 
sets  of  rsdlway  tracks*.  This,  in  fact, 
was  its  precise  method  of  locomo- 
tion. The  inner  cube  was  always 
having  to  catch  up,  caboose-fash- 
ion, with  the  outer  one  in  time  (or 
space,  depending  on  one’s  perspec- 
tive) . And  whenever  it  had  done 
so,  it  would  have  arrived  with  it- 
self— at  approximately  wherever  in 
the  space-time  continuum  it  had 
been  pointed. 

When  they  felt  the  jar  of  the 
settling  geodesics,  the  crew  crowded 
at  the  forward  visiplate  to  see  where 
they  were.  It  was  the  outskirts  of  a 
G type  star  system.  Silently  they 
watched  the  innermost  planet  float 
past,  scorched  and  craggy,  its  sun- 
ward side  seeming  about  to  relapse 
to  a molten  state. 

The  Bosun-Colonel  turned  to  the 
Conductor.  “A  bit  of  a disappoint- 
ment I’m  afraid,  sir.  Surely  with 
all  that  heat  . . .?” 

“Steady,  lad.  The  last  wicket’s 
not  been  bowled.”  The  Conductor’s 
whiskers  quivered  in  amusement  at 
his  next-in-command’s  impetuosity. 
“You’ll  notice  that  we’re  dropping 
downward.  If  the  temperature  ac- 
cordingly continues  dropping — ” 

He  couldn’t  shrug,  he  wasn’t 
physiologically  capable  of  it,  but 
it  was  apparent  that  he  felt  they’d 
soon  reach  a planet  whose  climate 
could  support  intelligent  life. 

If  the  Bosun-Colonel  had  any 
ideas  that  such  directions  as  up 

56 


and  down  were  meaningless  in 
space,  he  kept  them  to  himself.  As 
the  second  planet  from  its  sun  hove 
into  view,  he  switched  on  the  mag- 
niscan  eagerly. 

“I  say,  this  is  more  like  it.  Clouds 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Should 
we  have  a go  at  it,  sir?” 

The  Conductor  yawned.  “Too 
bloody  cloudy  for  my  taste.  Too 
equivocal.  Let’s  push  on,”  he  said 
languidly.  “I  have  a hunch  the 
third  planet  might  be  just  our  dish 
of  tea.” 

Quelling  his  disappointment,  the 
Bosun-Colonel  waited  for  the  third 
planet  to  swim  into  being.  And 
when  it  did,  blooming  like  an  or- 
chid in  all  its  greens  and  moist- 
nesses, he  could  scarcely  contain 
his  excitement. 

“Why,  it  looks  just  like  Earth,” 
he  marveled.  “Gad,  sir,  what  a 
master  stroke  of  navigation.  How 
did  you  realize  this  would  be  it?” 

“Oh,  I don’t  know,”  the  Con- 
ductor said  modestly.  “Things 
usually  have  a habit  of  occurring  in 
threes.  I’m  quite  a student  of  nu- 
merology, you  know.”  Then  he  re- 
membered the  Mission  and  drew 
himself  erect  on  all  his  legs.  “You 
may  prepare  for  landing.  Mister,” 
he  ordered  crisply. 

The  Bosun-Colonel  shifted  over 
to  manual  and  busied  himself  at 
the  helm,  luffing  the  square  craft 
down  the  troughs  of  air.  Gliding 
over  the  vast  tropical  oceans,  he 
put  down  at  a large  land  mass 
above  a shallow  warm  sea,  twenty- 
five  degrees  below  the  northern 
pole. 

Too  numbed  for  comment,  the 
crew  stared  out  at  the  alien  vista. 


WILLARD  MARSH 


They’d  heard  of  retarded  life 
forms  from  other  Missionary  ex- 
peditions— of  planets  where  the  in- 
habitants, in  extreme  emergency, 
had  been  known  to  commit  mur- 
der. But  this  was  surely  the  worst, 
the  most  vicious  imaginable  in  the 
galaxy. 

Here,  with  life  freshly  up  from 
the  sea,  freshly  launched  on  the 
long  climb  to  maturity  and  self- 
realization — was  nothing  but  hor- 
ror. With  so  lush  a vegetation,  so 
easily  capable  of  supporting  them 
side  by  side  in  abundance,  the 
monsters  were  actually  feeding  on 
each  other.  Great  lumbering  beasts 
they  were  with  their  bristling  hides 
and  huge  tails,  charging  between 
the  giant  tree  ferns;  gouging  living 
chunks  from  one  another  while 
razor-toothed  birds  with  scaly  wings 
flapped  overhead,  screaming  for 
the  remnants.  As  the  sounds  of 
carnage  came  through  the  audio 
ports,  the  youngest  Oarsman 
keeled  over  in  a faint. 

Even  the  Conductor  was  visibly 
shaken.  The  Bosun-Colonel  turned 
to  him  with  a sick  expression. 

“Surely  it’s  a lost  cause.  Skipper. 
Life  like  this  will  never  have  a 
soul  worth  saving.” 

“Not  in  its  present  stage,”  the 
Old  Man  was  forced  to  agree. 
“Still,  one  never  knows  the  devious 
paths  that  evolution  takes.”  He 
considered  the  scene  for  a thought- 
ful, shuddering  interval.  “Perhaps 
in  several  thousand  millen- 
niums . . .” 

The  Bosun-Colonel  tried  to  vis- 
ualize the  possibility  of  Ethical  Life 
ever  materializing  through  these 
swamp  mists,  but  the  logic  against 

THE  ETHICATORS 


it  was  too  insurmoimtable  for  the 
imagination. 

“Even  so,”  he  conceded,  “grant- 
ing the  impossible — whatever  shape 
it  took,  the  only  worthwhile  species 
would  still  be  . . .”  He  couldn’t 
bring  himself  to  say  it. 

“Meat-eaters,”  the  Conductor 
supplied  grimly. 

C3n  hearing  this,  the  Oarsman 
who  had  just  revived  promptly 
fainted  again. 

“It’s  too  deep  in  the  genes,”  the 
Conductor  continued,  “too  far  ad- 
vanced for  us  to  tamper  with.  All 
we  can  hope  to  do  is  modify  their 
moral  outlook.  So  that  by  the  time 
they  achieve  star  travel,  they’ll  at 
least  have  a basic  sense  of  Fair 
Play.” 

Sighing,  bowed  by  responsibilities 


NEVER, 
EVER  BEFORE, 
ANYWHERE! 

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fiction  books  and  back- 
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LIST  FREE. 

WEREWOLF  BOOKSHOP 

Shannon  Rd.,  R.D.  2,  Box  86K 
Verona,  Pennsylvonia 


57 


incommensurate  with  his  chrono- 
logical youth,  he  gave  the  order 
wearily.  It  was  snapped  down  the 
chain  of  command  to  the  Senior 
Yardbird: 

“All  paws  stand  by  to  lower  the 
Ethics  Ray!  Step  lively,  lads — bug- 
ger off,  now  ...” 

There  was  a din  of  activity  as 
the  outer  locks  were  opened  and 
the  bulky  mechanism  was  shipped 
over  the  side.  It  squatted  on  a 
cleared  rise  of  ground  in  all  its 
complex,  softly  ticking  majesty, 
waiting  for  the  First  Human  to  pad 
within  range  of  its  shedding  Grace 
and  Uplift.  The  work  party  scram- 
bled back  to  the  ship,  anxious  to  be 
off  this  sinister  terrain.  Once  more 
the  crew  gathered  at  the  visiplate 
as  the  planet  fell  away  beneath 
them,  the  Ethics  Ray  winking  in 
the  day’s  last  light  like  a corner- 
stone. Or  perhaps  a tambourine  . . . 


IGHT  CLOSED  down  on  the 
raw  chaotic  world,  huge  beasts 
closed  in  on  the  strange  star-fallen 
souvenir.  They  snuffled  over  it; 
then  enraged  at  discovering  it  was 
nothing  they  could  fill  their  clam- 
oring mindless  stomachs  with,  at- 
tempted to  wreck  it.  They  were  un- 
successful, for  the  Machine  had 
been  given  an  extra  heavy  coat  of 
shellac  and  things  to  withstand 
such  monkeyshines.  And  the  Ma- 
chine, in  its  own  finely  calibrated 
way,  ignored  its  harassers,  for  they 
had  no  resemblance  to  the  Life  it 
had  been  tuned  to  influence. 

Days  lengthened  into  decades, 
eons.  The  seas  came  shouldering  in 
to  stand  towers  tall  above  the 

58 


Ethics  Ray,  lost  in  the  far  ooze 
below.  Then  even  the  seas  receded, 
and  the  mountains  buckled  up- 
ward in  their  place,  their  arrogant 
stone  faces  staring  changelessly 
across  the  epochs.  Until  they  too 
were  whittled  down  by  erosion.  The 
ice  caps  crept  down,  crackling  and 
grinding  the  valleys.  The  groimd 
stretched  and  tossed  like  a restless 
sleeper,  settled,  and  the  Ethics  Ray 
was  brought  to  light  once  more. 

As  it  always  had,  it  continued 
beaming  its  particular  signal,  on  a 
cosmic  ray  carrier  modulated  by 
a pulse  a particular  number  of 
angstroms  below  infrared.  The 
beasts  that  blundered  within  its 
field  were  entirely  different  now, 
but  they  still  weren’t  the  Right 
Ones.  Among  them  were  some 
shambling  pale  bipeds,  dressed  in 
skins  of  other  beasts,  who  clucked 
over  its  gleaming  exterior  and  tried 
to  chip  it  away  for  spearheads.  In 
this  of  course  they  were  unsuccess- 
ful. 

And  then  one  day  the  First  Hu- 
man wandered  by,  paused  square 
in  the  path  of  the  beam.  His  phy- 
siology was  only  approximate,  his 
I.Q.  was  regrettably  low — but  he 
was  Pre-Moral  Life,  such  as  it  was, 
on  this  planet. 

The  Ethics  Ray  made  the  neces- 
sary frequency  adjustments,  tripped 
on  full  force.  The  Primitive  froze 
under  the  bombardment,  its  germ 
plasm  shifting  in  the  most  minute 
and  subtle  dimensions.  Then,  its 
mission  fulfilled,  the  Ethics  Ray  col- 
lapsed into  heavy  molecules  and 
sank  into  the  groimd.  The  first 
convert  raced  away  in  fright, 
having  no  idea  what  had  hap- 

WILLARD  AAARSH 


pened.  Neither  did  his  billion  sons 
and  daughters  . . , 

Back  on  the  home  base,  the 
Conductor  reported  in  at  the 
Ethication  of  Primitive  Planets 
office.  It  was  a magnificently  im- 
posing building,  as  befitting  the 
moral  seat  of  the  universe.  And  the 
Overseer  was  an  equally  imposing 
human  with  ears  greyed  by  service. 
His  congratulations  were  unre- 
served. 

“A  splendid  mission,  lad,”  he 
said,  “and  I don’t  mind  suggesting 
— strictly  entre  nous — that  it  could 
jolly  well  result  in  a Fleet  Con- 
ductorship  for  you.” 

The  Conductor  was  over- 
whelmed. 

“Now  just  let  me  jot  down  the 
essentials  while  they’re  still  fresh 
in  mind,”  he  continued,  pawing 
through  a desk  drawer.  “Bothera- 
tion! I seem  to  have  traded  the 
last  of  my  styluses.  Do  you  happen 
to  have  one  on  you?” 

“With  pleasure.”  The  Conductor 
handed  over  his  monogrammed 
gold  stylus,  receiving  in  exchange 
a toy  silencemaker. 

“My  youngster  traded  it  to  me 
this  morning,”  the  Overseer  chuck- 


led. 

He  wrote  rapidly  for  several  mo- 
ments, then  gave  the  stylus  bacL 
The  Conductor  found  a weathered 
paper-weight  in  his  rear  pocket, 
which  he  traded  him  for  it.  It 
looked  like  it  might  have  come 
from  this  very  desk  at  one  time. 
Then  with  a smart  salute,  he  about- 
faced. 

On  the  way  out,  a pair  of  sec- 
retaries paused  in  their  trading  of 
a pelt  brush  for  a tail-curler  to 
watch  him  admiringly.  As  well  they 
might.  Fleet  Conductor! 

The  future  Fleet  Conductor  of  a 
solar  system  he  would  never  think 
of  calling  Antares  paused  at  the 
door.  In  its  polished  panel  he  re- 
garded himself  with  due  apprecia- 
tion. He  had  sown  the  seeds  of 
civilization  on  a far-flimg  planet 
where,  countless  light  years  from 
now,  they  would  flower  to  maturity. 
Not  among  the  strongest  or  clever- 
est species,  to  be  sure,  but  among 
those  most  worthy  of  applying  First 
Principles,  the  moral  law  of  give 
and  take. 

Among  those  remote  cousins  of 
the  Conductor  himself — who  under 
no  circumstances  would  ever  think 
of  himself  as  resembling  a rather 
oversized  trader  rat  • • • 


DON’T  miss  Irving  E.  Cox’s  latest — THE  ALMOST  MEN — ^in  the 
October  issue.  It’s  a suspenseful  short  novel  about  a strange  war  in  which 
one  side  is  armed  with  the  greatest  weapons  of  the  age,  while  the  other  side 
has  nothing  but  a new  way  of  life : science  and  mechanics  notwithstanding, 
the  mind  is  Man’s  greatest  potential  . . . Also  top-notch  stories  by  Charles 
Beaumont,  Robert  F.  Young,  Edward  W.  Ludwig,  Alan  E.  Nourse  and 
others. 


THE  ETHICATORS 


59 


BLEEDBACK 


BY  WINSTON  MARKS 


It  was  just  a harmless^  though  amazing^  kid^s  toy  that  sold  for 


less  than  a dollar.  Yet  it  plunged  the  entire  nation 


into  a nightmare  of  mystery  and  chaos  . . . 


The  thing  is  over  now,  but  I 
can’t  see  a Teddy  bear  or  a 
set  of  blocks  in  a department  store 
window  without  shuddering.  I’m 
thankful  I’m  a bachelor  and  have 
no  children  around  to  remind  me 
of  the  utterly  insane  nightmare  that 
a child’s  toy  plunged  our  country 
into — the  millions  of  people  who 
died  in  agony — the  total  disruption 
and  near  dissolution  of  our  nation. 

And  yet,  as  the  United  States  tot- 
tered on  the  verge  of  complete 


chaos,  it  was,  ironically,  another 
child’s  toy  that  saved  us.  A simple, 
ordinary,  every-day  toy  for  tots 
stopped  the  “fever”,  halted  the 
carnage  that  was  tearing  our  flesh 
and  eyes  and  viscera  into  shreds. 
With  most  the  scientists  in  the 
world  working  for  an  emergency 
solution,  they  could  come  up  with 
no  better  answer  than  a toy  that’d 
been  around  for  generations  before 
the  “Mystery  i-Gun”  was  even  con- 
ceived. 


60 


Being  a plain-clothesman,  I have 
seen  greed  and  impatience  ruin 
many  individual  lives.  If  I could 
have  guessed  at  the  chain  of  events 
that  would  stem  from  my  first 
tact  with  the  younger  Baxter 
er,  I would  have  put  a bullet 
through  his  head  in  cold  blood  and 
cheerfully  faced  the  gas  chamber. 


Illustrated  by  Ed  Emsh 


Instead  I took  off  my  hat  and  fol-  told,  we  would  find  a body, 
lowed  him  through  the  substantial  Leo  Baxter  was  a little  guy  about 
old  house  to  a moderately  large  five-foot  six,  like  me  but  with  a 


room  in  the  rear  where,  I’d  been  better  build.  His  size  was  important 


61 


for  a couple  of  reasons,  one  being 
that  it  was  startling  to  say  the  least, 
when  he  pointed  to  the  giant  on  the 
floor  and  said,  “My  brother.” 

He  caught  my  look  and  shrugged 
impatiently.  “I  know,  I know,  but 
this  is  no  time  for  Mutt  and  Jeff 
gags.  Galvin  has  been  murdered. 
Now  get  with  it,  Lieutenant!”  If 
Galvin  was  his  brother,  Leo’s  agita- 
tion was  understandable,  but  his 
voice  had  a flat  note  of  practicality 
in  it  that  I didn’t  like. 

As  I looked  down  at  the  sprawled 
length  of  the  big  man  on  the  tiled 
floor,  the  Mutt  and  Jeff  angle 
didn’t  fit  at  all.  David  and  Goliath 
was  a better  bet.  This  Goliath 
seemed  also  to  have  met  his  fate 
from  a hole  in  the  forehead.  I say, 
“seemed,”  because  it  developed  that 
Galvin  Baxter  was  not  yet  quite 
dead. 

“There’s  no  pulse  or  breath,”  his 
brother  said  when  I mentioned  this 
error  in  his  assumption. 

“You’re  no  doctor.  Now  call  that 
ambulance  like  I told  you.  Jump!” 
I said. 

He  jumped.  I made  a quick  ex- 
amination, meanwhile,  and  when 
Leo  came  back  from  the  phone  I 
pointed.  “See,  the  blood.  It’s  still 
coming  out.” 

“Gorpses  bleed,  don’t  they?” 

“Not  in  spurts,”  I said.  “The 
hole’s  tiny,  but  whatever’s  in  there 
touched  an  artery.  See  that?” 

He  looked  and  seemed  convinced. 
“The  ambulance  will  be  here.  Any- 
thing else  I should  do?” 

“Yes.  Nothing.  Don’t  touch  a 
thing  in  this  room  ...  or  did  you 
already?” 

“Just  Galvin.  I heard  him  fall, 

62 


and  when  I came  in  he  was  on  his 
face.” 

“Why  did  you  ask  for  homicide 
when  you  called  the  police?  Or 
let’s  put  it  this  way:  What  makes 
you  think  it  wasn’t  an  accident?” 

“Two  reasons.  First,  because  I 
couldn’t  see  any  cause  of  the  acci- 
dent. When  I turned  him  over  the 
floor  was  smooth  and  clean  under 
his  forehead  except  for  the  smear 
of  blood.  Reason  number  two:  Be- 
cause Galvin  just  doesn’t  have  ac- 
cidents. All  his  life  he’s  moved  in 
slow  motion.  I’ve  never  known  him 
to  stumble,  or  cut  himself,  or  drop 
anything  or  even  bump  into  any- 
one.” 

I was  checking  around  the  room 
myself,  and  I had  to  admit  that 
both  reasons  might  be  valid.  A man 
the  size  of  Galvin  wasn’t  likely  to 
be  the  skittish  type.  And  by  the 
time  the  ambulance  arrived  I was 
ready  to  admit  that  if  the  injury 
were  an  accident,  Galvin  Baxter 
had  contrived  to  conceal  its  source. 

It  took  several  of  us  to  load  the 
unconscious  man  onto  the  stretcher. 
I told  his  cocky  little  brother  to  stay 
on  ice,  while  I rode  downtown  in 
the  ambulance. 

Dr.  Thorsen  called  me  into  the 
emergency  ward.  “How  did  this 
happen?”  he  wanted  to  know. 
Thorsen  is  a lean,  learned  old  chap 
who  normally  gives  more  answers 
than  he  asks. 

I said,  “Don’t  know.  Doc.  I 
found  him  in  a sort  of  home  work- 
shop. No  power  tools,  nothing  dan- 
gerous in  sight.  The  bench  at  one 
end  had  a couple  of  little  gadgets 
on  it — looked  sort  of  electrical. 
Some  wire,  soldering  iron,  books,  a 

WINSTON  AAARKS 


few  rough  circuit  drawings.” 

“The  gadgets.  What  did  they 
look  like?” 

1 thought  back  and  realized  that 
what  I had  to  describe  would  sound 
a little  peculiar.  “Sort  of  like  flash- 
lights with  a pistol  grip  . . . and  no 
lens  where  the  light  should  come 
out.  Just  blunt,  flat  ends. 

Thorsen  shrugged.  “Then  I don’t 
know.  I expected  you  to  report 
some  kind  of  a blast  or  explosion.” 
“No  sign  of  one.” 

“All  right,  then  what  else  but  a 
flying  particle  could  drill  a hole  in 
a man’s  forehead  the  diameter  of  a 
piece  of  16-gauge  wire?” 

“What  do  the  x-rays  show?” 
“We’ll  know  in  a minute.  What 
about  the  murder-attempt  angle?” 
I said  that  I had  nothing  to  go  on 
yet.  That  was  the  whole  truth  and 
the  final  truth! 

When  Doc’s  x-rays  revealed 
nothing  but  a blood  clot  deep  in  the 
brain  at  the  end  of  the  tiny  tunnel 
piercing  the  skull,  I was  left  with- 
out even  a “modus  operandi”,  let 
alone  a substantial  suspect. 


For  two  days  I investigated 
brother  Leo,  and  when  I wasn’t 
investigating  him  I was  question- 
ing him.  The  small  town  in  Min- 
nesota where  he  claimed  he  and 
his  brother  were  bom  had  been  the 
county  seat,  and  the  whole  shivaree 
had  burned  up  in  a prairie  fire 
years  ago,  courthouse,  birth  rec- 
ords and  all.  With  no  other  living 
relatives,  I had  to  depend  on  peo- 
ple who  had  known  both  men. 
From  those  whom  I questioned,  I 
ascertained  that  they  had  been 


passing  for  brothers,  at  least,  for 
some  time. 

On  the  third  day  Leo’s  patience 
began  to  crack.  “You  keep  asking 
me  the  same,  stupid  questions  over 
and  over.  I tell  you,  I’m  a mechan- 
ical engineer.  My  brother  was  a 
mathematician.  We’re  both  single. 
I make  enough  money  in  the  con- 
struction game  to  support  both  of 
us.  What’s  so  suspicious  about  hu- 
moring my  brother’s  research?” 

“Among  other  things,”  I said,  “is 
your  ignorance  of  what  he  was 
doing.” 

“For  the  fiftieth  time  I tell  you 
I didn^t  know!”  His  exasperation 
was  mounting  to  the  pitch  I had 
been  awaiting. 

“You  used  the  past  tense.  You 
do  know  now?” 

He  wheeled  and  crosstd  the 
living  room,  poured  himself  a drink 
of  straight  bourbon  and  downed  it. 
“Yes,  I have  a notion  now,  but  it’s 
none  of  your  damned  business.  His 
ideas  may  be  patentable.” 

I said  slowly  and  quietly,  “Now 
I’ll  tell  you  what  I’ve  been  waiting 
for.  I’ve  been  waiting  for  you  to 
offer  me  information  about  the  two 
little  gadgets  that  you  removed 
from  your  brother’s  work-bench — 
against  my  explicit  orders  not  to 
touch  anything.  Until  you  produce 
those  items  and  explain  your  ac- 
tions I’ll  be  around  here  asking 
stupid  questions.  From  now  on,  un- 
derstand?” 

“Damn  cops!”  He  threw  the  shot 
glass  to  the  floor  and  glared  at  me 
for  a long  minute.  “All  right,  come 
with  me.” 

We  went  into  a little  library.  He 
took  two  volumes  from  a high  shelf 


BLEEDBACK 


63 


and  from  the  recess  snatched  the 
two  gadgets  with  the  pistol  ^ips. 

From  a table  drawer,  whicn  he 
unlocked  with  a key  from  his 
pocket,  he  took  some  drawings  that 
looked  like  the  ones  that  had  dis- 
appeared from  his  brother’s  little 
work-shop. 

“Calvin  developed  a new  effect 
by  applying  one  of  his  esoteric 
mathematical  symbols  to  a simple 
electronic  circuit,”  Leo  began,  in 
his  surly  tone.  He  pointed  at  the 
margin  of  the  circuit  drawing. 
There  were  jottings  of  algebraic 
formulae  in  which  the  quantity  “i” 
appeared  prominently.  He  pointed 
this  out  to  me  and  continued, 
“Being  a cop  you  wouldn’t  under- 
stand, but  this  symbol  stands  for  an 
imaginary  number,  the  square  root 
of  a minus  one.” 

This  rang  a bell  from  away  back 
in  my  own  college  math.  I said, 
“Yeah,  I think  I remember.  It’s 
some  sort  of  operational  factor  in 
polar  coordinates.  No  real  meaning 
in  itself,  but — ” 

“Well!  An  educated  cop!  That’s 
right,  except  that  Calvin  managed 
to  give  this  symbol  an  actual,  func- 
tional application.  I was  telling  the 
truth  when  I said  I didn’t  ^ow 
what  he  was  doing.  I still  don’t  un- 
derstand it,  and  I’ve  been  losing 
sleep  over  these  formulae.” 

“Then  why  not  take  it  to  the 
university  and  let  the  professors — ” 

“Because,”  he  interrupted, 
“whether  I understand  it  or  not, 
Calvin’s  gadget,  happens  to  work. 
Watch  this.” 

He  picked  an  ordinary  paper  clip 
from  the  debris  of  pencils,  stamps 
and  rubber  bands  from  the  top  desk 


drawers,  touched  it  to  the  “muzzle” 
end  of  the  gadget  where  it  stuck  as 
if  magnetized.  “Now  keep  your 
eyes  on  the  paper  clip,”  he  ordered. 

His  forefinger  pressed  a button 
in  the  pistol  grip,  and  without 
click,  snap,  buzz  or  murmur,  the 
paper  clip  disappeared. 

Leo  stared  at  me,  as  thoughts  of 
“hyper-space”,  fourth-dimension 
and  space-warps  flitted  through  my 
mind.  It  wasn’t  a Buck  Roger’s 
atomic  disintegrator,  because  there 
was  no  heat,  flash  or  sound.  The 
clip  was  suddenly  elsewhere. 

“And  I suppose  the  other  gadget 
brings  it  back,”  I said. 

“That’s  what  I thought,  but  I 
can’t  make  it  work.  I suppose  my 
brother  could,  if  he  were  here.” 

He  tossed  the  thing  to  me, 
pointed  at  the  little  box  of  paper 
clips  in  the  drawer  and  said,  “Have 
fun.” 

I did,  for  about  five  minutes. 
Eight  paper  clips  later  I was  con- 
vinced that  whatever  else  it  might 
be,  the  gadget  was  no  potential 
murder  weapon.  The  clips  dis- 
appeared, totally.  You  could  pass 
your  hand  through  the  point  of 
departure  without  a tingle  of  sensa- 
tion. 

Leo  briefed  me  further.  The 
thing  worked  only  on  metallic  con- 
ductors. It  was  harmless  to  human 
flesh  and  other  organic  matter. 
Then  he  removed  the  cover  that 
ran  the  length  of  the  rather  crude, 
hand-carved,  wooden  barrel.  From 
front  to  back,  were:  One  pen-light 
cell,  a lumpy-looking  coil  of  wire 
hand-wound  on  a spindle-shaped 
iron  core,  and  a short,  cylindrical 
bar-magnet. 


64 


WINSTON  MARKS 


“In  mass  production,”  he  said, 
“About  40  cents  worth  of  material 
and  maybe  50  cents  worth  of  labor! 
Do  you  see  why  I wanted  to  keep 
it  a secret  until  I could  patent  it?” 

“No!”  I said  flatly.  “Unless  you 
consider  a paper-clip  disposal  unit 
an  item  of  commerci^  impor- 
tance.” 

“But  it’s  a whole  new  scientific 
principle — the  rotation  of  matter 
completely  out  of  our  space-time 
continuum!” 

“That  much  I grasp,  but  what 
good  is  it  except  as  a demonstration 
of  a piece  of  pure  scientific  re- 
search?” 

“Good  Lord,  man,  have  you  no 
imagination?” 

“Okay,  okay!  Get  rich,”  I said 
and  slammed  the  front  door  behind 
me  as  I stomped  out.  I had  been 
so  certain  that  the  missing  gadgets 
would  give  me  a motive  for  the  at- 
tack on  Leo’s  brother,  or  at  least 
the  method  of  inflicting  the  fan- 
tastic wound,  that  I was  about 
ready  to  turn  in  my  badge  in  frus- 
tration. All  I could  pin  on  Leo  was 
a desire  to  cash  in  on  his  brother’s 
gimmick — ^which,  presumably,  he 
could  have  done  whether  Calvin 
lived  or  died. 

Suppose,  I mused  on  my  way 
back  to  the  station,  that  Calvin  had 
refused  to  let  Leo  commercialize  on 
his  discovery?  Perhaps  Calvin  was 
preparing  a paper  for  publication 
in  scientific  circles.  Maybe  cool- 
headed  little  Leo  tried  to  knock  off 
his  brother  to  keep  the  secret  in 
the  family  until  it  could  be  turned 
to  a selfish  dollar. 

All  right,  suppose  a jury  would 
accept  such  an  impalpable  theory 

BLEEDBACK 


as  a motive,  then  what?  No  murder 
weapon.  No  witnesses.  Not  even  a 
genuine  murder  yet,  because  Calvin 
was  still  alive. 

Yes,  old  Doc  Thorsen  had  kept 
the  mathematician  alive  somehow. 
The  elder  Baxter  lay  on  his  back 
across  two,  white  iron  beds  pushed 
together  in  the  City  Hospital,  and 
Thorsen  came  in  to  report  to  me. 

“The  clot  seems  to  be  absorbing 
better  than  I expected,  but  it’s 
doubtful  that  we  could  operate  to 
remove  the  paralyzing  pressure. 
The  puncture  is  deep  into  the  brain 
tissue,  and  he’s  too  nearly  gone  to 
survive  such  an  ordeal.” 

“Any  chance  that  he  might  re- 
cover consciousness?” 

“Pretty  remote,”  Thorsen  told 
me.  “We’ll  keep  a special  nurse 
with  him  as  you  ordered,  just  in 
case  he  does.” 

I left  Calvin  Baxter  pale  and 
motionless  as  some  great  statue 
supine  amid  the  tangle  of  plasma, 
glucose  and  saline  hoses,  under  his 
transparent  oxygen  tent.  The 
wound  that  had  laid  him  low  was 
no  more  than  a dot  of  dried  blood 
on  his  massive  forehead. 

Until  his  death,  his  file  would  re- 
main under  unsolved  crimes.  In 
my  own  mind  I was  no  longer  sure 
of  anything,  except  that  if  there 
was  a nickel  in  Calvin  Baxter’s  dis- 
covery, his  mercenary  brother 
would  wring  it  out. 

And  he  did.  Even  before  Calvin 
died. 

Some  seven  weeks  later  Leo  mar- 
keted the  “MYSTERY  i-GUN”  as 
a combined,  toy,  trick  and  puzzle, 
and  it  set  the  whole  damned  world 
on  its  ear! 

65 


I located  Leo  Baxter  in  his  new 
suite  of  offices  on  the  34th  floor 
of  the  State  Building.  He  peeled 
back  his  lips  in  a sneery  grin.  “I 
thought  you’d  be  showing  up.” 

He  waved  away  his  male  secre- 
tary who  was  still  clinging  to  my 
arm  trying  to  tow  me  back  to  the 
reception  room.  I said,  “I  kept 
your  secret,  then  you  pull  an  irre- 
sponsible thing  like  this!  A kid’s  toy! 
Good  Lord,  man,  that  device  might 
be  dangerous!” 

“I  appreciate  your  professional 
ethics,  Lieutenant.  I’ve  applied  for 
a patent,  so  you  can  tell  all  your 
friends  now.  And  stop  worrying. 
The  “Mystery  i-Gun”  is  quite 
harmless.  I experimented  a week 
before  going  into  production.” 

“A  week?”  I could  scarcely  be- 
lieve my  ears.  “What  happens  when 
some  kid  jams  his  gun  against  a 
light-pole  or  an  automobile  ...  or 
the  night  lock  on  the  First  National 
Bank?” 

“Nothing.  It  punches  no  holes.  A 
large  metallic  object  simply  dis- 
sipates the  field.  The  largest  object 
it  will  handle  is  about  a half -inch 
steel  screw — ” 

“Baxter,  your  brother’s  accident 
is  connected  to  that  device — and 
you  turn  it  loose  as  a novelty!” 
“Nonsense.  It’s  safe  as  a knot- 
hole. It  simply  makes  things  dis- 
appear. Little  things,  like  tacks,  ball 
bearing,  old  rusty  nuts  and  bolts — ” 
“And  dimes  and  mamma’s  ear- 
rings and  the  front  door  key,”  I 
snapped  back.  “Until  you  know 
how  to  bring  those  things  back  you 
had  no  right  to  market  that  rig.” 
He  laid  his  small  hands  before 
him  on  the  desk.  “Lieutenant,  I’m 

66 


sick  of  working  for  other  people. 
This  is  my  chance  to  get  a bank- 
roll to  back  my  own  contracting 
firm.  Yes,  I financed  Calvin’s  re- 
search because  he’s  brilliant,  and  I 
knew  he’d  come  up  with  something 
some  day.  Now  he’s  done  it,  and 
I’m  merely  protecting  his  interests 
and  my  investment  in  him.  See 
here.”  He  shoved  some  documents 
at  me.  There  was  the  patent  ap- 
plication, a declaration  of  partner- 
ship for  purposes  of  marketing  the 
Mystery  i-Gun,  and  the  articles  of 
incorporation  of  the  Baxter  Con- 
struction Company. 

“Okay,”  I said.  “So  you’ve  cut 
your  brother  in  on  all  this.  Who’s 
his  beneficiary  when  he  dies?” 
“Still  looking  for  a motive  for 
murder,  aren’t  you.  Lieutenant?” 

I didn’t  admit  it  to  him,  but  he 
was  right.  Galvin’s  “accident” 
seemed  too  convenient  to  the  pur- 
poses of  his  practical  little  brother, 
Leo.  What’s  more,  the  lab  and 
medical  men  on  the  force  were  just 
as  mystified  today  as  they  were 
when  we  brought  Calvin  in  with 
the  needle-thin  hole  in  his  skull. 
Old  Doc  Thorsen  had  admitted  to 
me  that  he  could  name  no  imple- 
ment— not  even  a surgical  instru- 
ment— that  could  have  inflicted 
such  a narrow  gauge  hole.  It  had  to 
be  caused  by  a fragment,  hut  there 
was  no  fragment  in  the  brain! 

“Leo,”  I said,  “I  know  you  con- 
sider this  case  closed,  but  I want 
you  to  do  me  a favor.  I want  to  go 
over  youf  brother’s  lab  once  more.” 
“But  you’ve — ” He  stopped, 
shrugged  and  nodded  his  head. 
“Okay.  I’m  interested  in  finding 
out  what  hurt  Cal,  as  much  as  you 

WINSTON  MARKS 


are.  I’ll  tell  you,  Fm  busy  the  rest 
of  this  week,  but  Fll  meet  you  at 
the  old  house  next  Monday  evening 
at  eight.  You  see,  I closed  up  the 
place  and  moved  downtown.” 

I agreed,  with  the  feeling  that  he 
was  deliberately  making  me  wait 
just  to  annoy  me.  Leo  Baxter  was 
an  important  man  now,  a man 
graciously  willing  to  cooperate  with 
the  police — at  his  own  convenience. 
I stood  up.  “Your  brother  has  been 
calling  your  name.  I suppose  they 
told  you  that?” 

“They  phoned.  Doctor  said  it 
was  just  mutterings.” 

“You  haven’t  even  been  to  see 
him?” 

“What’s  the  use?  He  wouldn’t 
recognize  me.” 

Well,  it  wasn’t  any  of  my  busi- 
ness, really,  but  it’s  funny  how  you 
get  to  hate  a man  for  his  attitude. 
I don’t  know  what  I expected  to 
find  by  going  over  that  lab-work- 
shop  again,  but  whatever  it  was,  I 
hoped  it  would  incriminate  Leo. 
On  the  face  of  it  he  was  guilty  of 
nothing  more  than  a premature 
marketing  of  a new  device,  but  the 
way  he  was  cashing  in  on  Galvin’s 
genius  certainly  did  the  dying  man 
no  honor. 

Cash  in  was  right!  The  toys  sold 
like  bubble-gum.  The  papers,  radio, 
and  TV  picked  up  the  sensational 
gimmick  and  gave  it  a billion  bucks 
worth  of  free  advertising.  And  the 
profitable  part  of  it  was  that  the 
i-Gun  was  so  simple  to  mass-pro- 
duce that  Leo’s  fifteen  contracting 
manufacturers  were  almost  able  to 
keep  up  with  the  astronomical  de- 
mand. 

Before  that  week  was  up,  the 
BLEEDBACK 


Wall  Street  Journal  estimated  there 
were  already  more  i-Guns  in  the 
hands  of  the  juvenile  public  than 
all  the  yo-yos  ever  produced.  They 
retailed  at  eighty-five  cents,  made 
of  plastic  with  a hole  in  the  back 
where  you  could  change  the  pen- 
light  battery.  They  sold,  all  right. 
They  sold  in  drugstores  and  toy 
stores  and  dime  stores  and  depart- 
ment stores.  Toddler’s,  tykes  and 
teen-agers  went  for  them.  And 
adults.  Maybe  30  million  of  them 
were  in  the  hands  of  the  public 
before  I saw  Leo  Baxter  next. 

Which  was  almost  two  weeks  in- 
stead of  the  one  week  he  had  prom- 
ised. 

I finally  got  an  appointment. 
“Sorry,”  he  said.  “Fve  been  tied 
up  with  government  people  all 
week.  The  A.  E.  G.  tried  to  get 
me  in  trouble.” 

I said,  “Skip  it.  You  promised 
for  tonight.  Now  let’s  go.” 

“I  can’t  possibly  make  it  to- 
night.” He  pointed  at  his  desk.  It 
was  littered  with  correspondence, 
orders  and  contracts.  “Give  me  one 
more  week.  Lieutenant.” 

It  was  an  order,  not  a request. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
wait  the  third  week.  It  was  not, 
however,  uneventful.  It  was  the 
week  the  accidents  began  to  hap- 
pen. 

At  4: 14  of  a Tuesday  afternoon, 
a man  was  admitted  to  a local 
hospital  with  a perforated  belly. 
Straight  through,  hide,  guts  and 
liver.  A newsman  got  hold  of  it  and 
wrote  a scare  story  about  an  attack 
with  a pellet  gun  that  must  shoot 
needles. 

Before  the  edition  was  sold  out 

67 


the  hospitals  were  loaded  with 
emergency  cases.  People  with  holes 
in  them.  Tiny  little  holes,  mostly, 
but  holes  that  went  right  through 
them.  Then  dogs.  Then  automo- 
biles, trucks  and  busses.  Holes  in 
their  radiators.  Holes  in  windshields 
that  always  went  straight  back, 
through  seats  and  sometimes  pas- 
sengers— ^right  out  through  the  rear 
end. 


The  city  panicked.  Then  the 
county,  state  and  nation.  In 
two  days,  yes,  the  whole  nation! 

At  first  everyone  thought  we 
were  being  attacked  by  some  secret 
weapon.  By  some  miracle  of  states- 
manship, the  President  of  the 
United  States  prevented  a “massive 
retaliation”  attack  by  the  army  up- 
on our  most  likely  enemy — long 
enough  for  Intelligence  to  affirm 
that  no  enemy  on  Earth  was  that 
mad  at  us. 

Then  all  thoughts  turned  to  ex- 
tra-terrestrial space.  A bombard- 
ment from  the  sky?  It  was  ridicu- 
lous to  even  consider,  because  none 
of  the  holes  that  appeared  in  peo- 
ple and  things  came  from  above. 
The  holes  were  almost  entirely  in 
the  horizontal  plane. 

Strangely  enough  during  those 
first  two  days,  nobody  thought  of 
the  Mystery  i-Gun.  No  one  but  me. 

Leo  Baxter  had  disappeared  into 
thin  air,  as  completely  as  if  he’d 
turned  to  metal  and  crawled  into 
the  muzzle  of  one  of  his  own 
“toys”. 

I had  every  known  place  he  fre- 
quented staked  out  with  a pair  of 
plain-clothesmen,  but  it  was  the 

68 


morning  of  the  second  day  of  ac- 
cidents before  I got  a radio  call 
from  the  squad  car  stationed  near 
the  old  Baxter  home. 

Leo  had  come  home  at  last.  He 
was  a sad  looking  midget  when  I 
got  there.  Obviously  no  sleep,  un- 
shaven, deep  hollows  under  his 
eyes. 

“I  figured  you’d  be  waiting  for 
me.  Lieutenant,  but  you  know 
what?”  he  demanded.  “I  don’t 
give  a damn!  I kept  waiting  for 
them  to  figure  out  the  answer  to 
these  accidents  and  string  me  up. 
How  come  you  didn’t  tell  any- 
body?” 

I said,  “Shut  up  and  let’s  go  in- 
side.” 

Sure,  I figured  the  i-Gun  was  the 
cause,  but  the  last  thing  I wanted 
was  for  Leo  to  get  strung  up  before 
I laid  my  hands  on  that  other  de- 
vice— the  one  that  wouldn’t  work.  I 
wanted  that  rig  and  all  the  plans 
and  formulae,  and  Leo  undoubted- 
ly had  them  hidden  deeper  than 
Fort  Knox. 

He  unlocked  the  door,  and  I told 
the  others  to  wait  outside.  We  went 
into  the  hall  and  closed  the  door 
behind  us.  “So  your  little  toy  was 
harmless?”  I said,  grabbing  him  by 
his  wrinkled  lapels.  “So  it  just 
shoots  stuff  off  into  another  dimen- 
sion?” 

He  stared  at  me,  his  eyes  half 
glazed.  “I  don’t — know.  That’s 
what  the  notes  said.”  He  sank  into 
a chair.  “I  guess  it  doesn’t,  though. 
It  must  ball  up  the  metal  object 
and  shoot  it  out — ^infinite  velocity 
— reduced  in  size — infinite  mass- 
infinite  inertia — keeps  circling  the 
globe  like — like  a satellite.  Goes 

WINSTON  MARKS 


right  through  anything  it  hits.  Goes 
on  and  on.  Forever.  Little  bullets. 
Right  through  steel.  Right  through 
flesh  and  bones — ” 

“Simmer  down,”  I said.  “You’ve 
been  reading  the  papers.  I’ve  been 
checking  the  facts.” 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

“That  you  were  right  the  first 
time.  It  does  shoot  metal  objects 
into  another  dimension.  But  they 
don^t  stay  there.  They  ooze  back. 
Slowly.  Real  slow,  so  the  first  edge 
or  comer  that  sticks  back  into  our 
dimension  is  only  a few  millionths 
of  an  inch  thick.  Then  a few  ten- 
thousandths,  then  a few  thou- 
sandths— and  that’s  about  the  time 
they  start  making  holes  in  people 
and  objects  that  run  into  them.'^ 
“Run  into  them?” 

“Certainly.  There  are  no  holes 
in  buildings  or  other  stationary  ob- 
jects. The  holes  are  all  horizontal. 
Now  look,  Baxter,  our  only  chance 
is  to  work  on  that  other  device  and 
your  brother’s  notes,  and  maybe 
we  can  develop  an  extractor  of 
some  kind.” 

“No.  No,  you  don’t  understand,” 
he  said  shaking  his  head  like  a 
sleep-walker.  “It  balls  up  the  metal. 
Shoots  it  out.  Infinite  mass.  Infinite 
veloc — ” 

“Knock  off  that  nonsense,  and 
tell  me  where  those  plans  are.” 
“Trying  to  steal  my  brother’s 
other  invention,  are  you?  It’s  not 
patented  yet.  You  know  that,  don’t 
you?  Couldn’t  patent  it  because  I 
can’t  make  it  work  yet.  You’re 
smart,  but  you  won’t  get  it  from 
me — ” 

I had  a fair  hold  on  him,  but 
the  pure  insanity  that  flared  in  his 

BLEEDBACK 


eyes  shocked  me  for  just  the  instant 
it  took  him  to  wrench  out  of  my 
hands.  He  stumbled  to  the  door  of 
the  study  and  burst  through  it 
heading  for  the  window.  I didn’t 
hurry  after  him  too  fast,  because  I 
knew  the  boys  outside  would  take 
him. 

Leo  Baxter  was  only  three  paces 
into  the  stale  air  of  the  unused 
library  when  he  screamed,  clasping 
his  hands  to  his  chest  and  dropped. 
A peculiar  grating,  plucking  sound 
came  faintly  before  he  thudded  to 
the  carpet. 

I stopped  hard  in  my  tracks  and 
wiped  the  sweat  from  my  face 
while  Leo  Baxter  twitched  almost 
at  my  feet,  his  heart  shredded  and 
bubbling  its  last  in  his  perforated 
chest. 

The  paper  clips.  The  ones  1 had 
propelled  into  nothingness  weeks 
ago. 

Hat  in  hand  I advanced  slowly, 
waving  it  before  me  chest  high. 
Then  it  caught  suddenly,  grated  for 
a split  second  and  passed  on  in  its 
arc.  Now  there  were  several  tiny 
holes  in  it.  I backed  away  a foot 
and  brought  my  hat  down  slowly 
on  the  same  lethal  spot  of  air. 
Chest-high  it  caught  and  hung  sus- 
pended. 

Leaving  it  there  as  a marker  I 
took  off  my  suitcoat,  held  it  before 
me  and  inched  forward  toward 
the  desk.  Something  plucked  at  the 
dangling  garment,  and  a chill  froze 
my  spine.  Had  I been  walking 
forward  normally,  the  tiny  speck 
of  metal  that  barely  caught  the 
glint  of  light  from  the  window, 
would  have  pierced  my  skin  at  just 
about  the  site  of  my  appendix.  I 

69 


circled  the  spot  continuing  to  feel 
forward  with  my  coat.  That  was 
the  paper  clip  Baxter  had  fired  to 
demonstrate  to  me  that  first  day. 

At  the  phone  I called  headquar- 
ters and  told  the  chief  what  to  do. 

“You’re  so  right,”  he  told  me, 
his  voice  slurring  strangely.  “Only 
you’re  a little  late.  The  order  went 
out  to  confiscate  the  i-Guns.  They 
think  the  damned  toys  might  have 
something  to  do  with  the  accidents. 
And  I bought  one  of  the  first  ones 
for  my  little  Jerry!”  His  voice 
sounded  hollow. 

So  they  were  figuring  it  out! 
The  next  question  was,  how  to  ex- 
tract the  deadly  particles  from  the 
other  dimension,  or  how  to  keep 
them  from  bleeding  back  slowly 
into  ours. 

I moved  cautiously  through  the 
old  house  fanning  every  inch  of  air 
ahead  of  me  with  a phone  book. 
When  I got  to  Calvin  Baxter’s 
workshop  I was  especially  careful, 
but  I needn’t  have  been.  The  only 
metal  particles  stuck  into  the  thin 
air  seemed  to  be  over  his  work- 
bench where  he  had  been  experi- 
menting with  his  device.  All  but 
one. 

It  was  right  where  I expected  to 
find  it — better  than  six  feet  in  the 
air,  just  fore-head  high  for  a mam 
tall  as  Calvin  Baxter.  He  had  fired 
his  proto-type  of  the  i-Gun  just 
once  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

How  long  ago?  Eight — ^ten  weeks 
ago? 

It  seemed  impossible  that  all  this 
horror  had  occurred  in  such  a short 
time. 

But  there  it  was,  stuck  in  space, 
protruding  about  a hundredth  of 

70 


an  inch  from  nowhere  into  clear 
visibility.  So  little  was  showing  that 
I couldn’t  be  sure,  but  it  looked 
like  the  tip  of  an  ordinary  little 
nail  or  wo^-screw. 

This  was  my  “murder-weapon”, 
the  cause  of  Calvin  Baxter’s  acci- 
dent, He’d  run  into  it,  jerked  his 
head  back,  and  the  speck  had  come 
out  the  same  hole  it  went  in. 

In  twenty  minutes  by  the  clock  I 
had  the  lab  crew  out  from  head- 
quarters, and  had  explained  the 
whole  business  to  them.  First  they 
measured  the  length  of  the  pro- 
trusion, and  my  guess  was  about 
right.  It  measured  .0095  inches  on 
the  micrometer  caliper. 

If  it  were  a screw  an  inch  long, 
at  that  rate  of  “bleedback”  it  would 
take  another  98  weeks  to  come  the 
rest  of  the  way  out.  Almost  two 
years! 

Paul  Riley,  the  lab  chief,  was 
sharp.  He  caught  it  about  the  same 
time  I did  and  turned  to  look  at 
me,  “We’ve  got  to  figure  a way  of 
getting  those  things  out  of  the 
way.” 

I nodded.  “But  quick.” 

Collins,  our  print  man,  said, 
“Why  not  just  shoot  them  back 
into  wherever  it  is  they  go,  with 
another  i-Gun?” 

“And  have  them  come  bleeding 
back  after  a few  weeks?”  Paid 
frowned  him  silent. 

He  picked  up  a hammer  from 
the  bench  and  tapped  the  tiny, 
glinting  speck.  The  point  flattened 
out  a bit,  but  the  thud  of  the  ham- 
mer indicated  how  solidly  it  was 
stuck.  Then  he  walked  around  be- 
hind the  point  and  struck  it  a hard 
blow  from  the  cross-section  side. 


WINSTON  MARKS 


The  hammer  shivered  in  his  hand 
and  he  dropped  it,  rubbing  his 
numbed  fingers  with  his  other  hand. 

“Lieutenant,”  he  said  slowly,  “we 
are  up  against  something.” 

We  found  we  could  file  away  the 
metal  easily  enough.  Sure  it  filed 
away  until  the  file  cut  into  empty 
space.  But  cold  comfort  that  was. 
In  a few  hours,  we  knew,  molecule 
by  molecule,  the  screw  buried  in 
the  other  dimension  would  come 
oozing  back,  a minute  but  lethal 
speck  ready  to  ambush  th^  first  very 
tall  man  who  walked  toward  it. 

Tall  man! 

That’s  why  Leo  Baxter  and  I 
had  failed  to  find  it  in  the  first 
place.  I had  criss-crossed  that  room 
half  a thousand  times  in  my  pre- 
vious examinations.  If  I had  been 
taller,  or  the  speck  of  metal  lower — 

“We’ve  got  to  bring  Calvin  Bax- 
ter back  to  consciousness  some- 
how,” I said.  “We’ve  got  to  find 
out  how  that  extractor  of  his 
works.” 

“Right!”  Jerry  said,  dropping  his 
hands  in  resignation.  We’d  run  out 
of  ideas  at  the  same  time,  and  the 
senior  Baxter  appeared  to  be  our 
only  hope. 


WE  FANNED  our  way  out  of 
there,  into  the  squad  car,  and 
proceeded  at  a gingerly  five  miles 
per  hour  back  to  headquarters.  On 
my  insistence,  Calvin  Baxter  had 
been  set  up  in  a private  room  at  the 
jail  with  Doc  Thorsen  in  attend- 
ance. The  city  hospitals  were  so 
jammed  with  accident  victims  and 
frantic  relatives  that  it  was  no  place 
to  work  with  a man  who  was  our 


only  salvation. 

When  I explained  everything  to 
Dr.  Thorsen  and  told  him  how  im- 
portant it  was  that  we  bring  Calvin 
back  to  consciousness  he  shook  his 
head.  “It  might  be  done,  but  it 
would  probably  kill  him — ” 

“But  you  said  he’d  never  recover 
anyway,”  I argued. 

Thorsen  seemed  to  be  consider- 
ing that.  “Yes,”  he  said  at  last. 
“That’s  more  apparent  now  than 
ever.  He’s  beginning  to  suffer  the 
usual  complications  of  immobility. 
Probably  won’t  last  more  than  a 
few  weeks  anyway.  But  can’t  you 
get  the  dope  you  want  from  his 
brother?”  he  stalled  while  he 
weighed  his  ethics  against  the  ne- 
cessity of  the  moment. 

“His  brother,”  I told  him,  “is 
dead.  Paper  clips.  Right  through 
the  heart.” 

“I  see.  Well,  we  could  operate, 
but  as  I said,  Calvin  wouldn’t  sur- 
vive for  long.  Maybe  only  hours  or 
minutes.  And  maybe  not  even  long 
enough  to  regain  consciousness  after 
we  remove  the  clot.” 

I said,  “I’ve  left  a crew  at  the 
Baxter  house  to  tear  it  apart,  board 
by  board,  until  we  find  this  so- 
called  extractor  that  Leo  hid.  But 
even  after  we  find  it,  we  need  Cal- 
vin to  tell  us  how  to  make  it  work. 
There  must  be  a part  missing.” 

We  had  wandered  into  Calvin’s 
room  and  were  talking  over  his 
great,  supine  body,  covered  to  the 
chin  with  a white  sheet.  The  speck 
of  scalp  on  his  forehead  had  dried 
up  and  dropped  off  leaving  only  a 
faint  white  spot. 

As  I mentioned  the  missing  part, 
his  lips  began  moving  and  a grunt 

71 


BLEEDBACK 


issued  from  his  throat.  “Listen,”  I 
said.  “He  hears  me!  He’s  trying  to 
talk!” 

“No,  Lieutenant.”  Thorsen  said, 
putting  a hand  to  his  eyes.  “He’s 
been  grunting  like  that  for  days. 
The  only  word  that  ever  comes  out 
is  his  brother’s  name,  Leo.” 

The  name  struck  anger  and 
frustration  in  me.  “Leo,”  I half- 
shouted.  “That  stinking  little — 
never  even  visited  his  brother!” 
“Relax,  Gene.  That  won’t  do  any 
good.  The  man’s  dead,”  he  re- 
minded me. 

“Relax?  When  all  over  the  coun- 
try people  are  tearing  their  bodies 
to  pieces?  Innocent  people.  Little 
kids—” 

“I  know,  I know.  I just  spent 
nine  hours  in  the  emergency  ward. 
Peritonitis.  Cardiac  injury.  Lungs. 
Tom  eye-balls.  And  it’s  probably 
just  the  beginning.” 

“Then  what  are  you  waiting 
for?”  I demanded.  “Our  only 
chance  is  to  bring  Calvin  Baxter  to 
consciousness  long  enough  to  ex- 
plain how  his  extractor  works.” 
Doc  ran  trembling  hands  through 
his  fuzz  of  white  hair.  For  the  first 
time  I noticed  that  the  pupils  of  his 
eyes  were  moving  back  and  forth 
in  little  quick,  darting  motions  like 
a wild  animal  looking  for  escape.  “I 
— don’t  know.  Gene.  I suppose  you 
are  right.  Only — ^we  need  permis- 
sion— ^we  must — ^you  see,  he  might 
die,  and — ” 

I took  a good  look  at  him  and 
suddenly  realized  that  despite  his 
calm  voice,  the  old  man  was  going 
to  pieces.  I grabbed  him  by  the  arm 
and  hauled  him  out  of  there,  across 
the  hall  to  the  chief’s  office.  Dur- 

72 


Stine  had  his  head  down  on  his 
arms,  slouched  over  the  desk  fast 
asleep  between  two  clanging  tele- 
phones. 

“Wake  up,  chief!”  I said,  shak- 
ing him  by  the  shoulder.  “We  have 
to  get  J^ter  to  City  Hospital 
and — ” 

Durstine  raised  his  head  and 
stared  at  me.  His  usually  sharp, 
gray  eyes  were  dull,  and  his  face 
looked  dirty  with  a stubble  of  black 
whiskers.  With  a deliberate  motion 
of  both  hands  he  knocked  the  re- 
ceivers off  both  phones  and  fell 
back  in  his  swivel  chair.  “Now 
what?”  he  asked  thickly. 

“You’re  drunk!”  I exclaimed. 
Durstine,  who  would  fire  a 20-year 
man  without  a qualm  if  he  caught 
a single  trace  of  beer  on  his  breath 
on  duty, 

“What  else  is  new?”  He  could 
barely  focus  his  eyes  on  me. 

I swallowed  a couple  of  times 
and  began  explaining  what  must  be 
done.  Get  the  mayor  and  Civil 
Defense  on  the  phone.  Com- 
mandeer all  radio  stations  to  ex- 
plain the  true  nature  of  the  metallic 
particles  to  the  public.  Tell  them 
to  stay  put,  and  when  they  did 
move,  to  walk  slowly,  fanning  the 
air  ahead  of  them  with  something 
solid — an  umbrella,  a coat,  news- 
paper, garbage  can  lid — anything 
to  warn  them  of  the  tiny,  sus- 
pended daggers. 

“Yeah.  Great  idea.  Some  people 
doing  it  already.”  He  said  it  with- 
out enthusiasm.  “Only  trouble  is, 
the  phones  are  swamped.  Com- 
munications are  breaking  down  al- 
ready, and  when  people  learn  about 
the  fever,  they  will  blow  sky-high.” 

WINSTON  MARKS 


“The  fever?” 

“The  fever.”  He  bobbed  his  head 
loosely.  “My  Jerry  died  of  it  this 
afternoon.  Came  down  with  it  day 
before  yesterday.  By  the  time  we 
got  him  to  the  hospital  this  morn- 
ing he  was  running  a hundred  and 
five.  Docs  were  too  busy  with 
bleeders.  Wouldn’t  listen  to  me  un- 
til it  was  too  late.  Jerry’s  dead.  My 
little  Jerry.”  His  voice  was  flat,  his 
eyes  staring  straight  ahead. 

Jerry  was  his  only  son,  and  one 
of  the  first  kids  in  town  to  own  an 
i-Gun.  Durstine  had  said  he  bought 
it  for  himself.  The  chief  went  on, 
“What’s  more,  the  fever’s  epidemic. 
Before  we  left  the  hospital  they 
were  dragging  victims  in  by  the 
hundreds.  Not  just  kids,  either.  On 
top  of  this  other  thing,  we  got  the 
worst  epidemic  in  history.  No  one 
knows  what  it  is.” 

I looked  at  Thorsen.  “You  said 
you’d  been  at  the  hospital.  What  is 
it?” 

“I — saw  a few  cases.”  He  said  it 
almost  under  his  breath. 

I grabbed  him  by  his  coat  lapels. 
“Snap  out  of  it.  Doc.  If  you  know 
what  it  is,  for  God’s  sake  tell  us!” 

“They  don’t  know  what  it  is,” 
he  said  looking  down  at  the  floor. 

“But  you  do.  I can  tell  by  your 
face  ” 

“All  right,  maybe  I do.”  His 
face  was  drawn  and  defiant  with 
an  almost  fanatical  determination. 
“There  aren’t  enough  sulphas  and 
antibiotics  in  the  world  to  control 
it.  We  can’t  do  anything  about  it, 
so  why  drive  people  crazy  with 
fear?” 

Durstine  was  coming  out  of  his 
fog.  He  opened  the  big  bottom 

BLEEDBACK 


drawer  of  his  desk  and  handed  an 
open  fifth  of  whiskey  to  Thorsen. 
He  said,  “Doc,  you’re  in  no  condi- 
tion to  make  a decision  like  that.” 

Thorsen  tipped  up  the  bottle  and 
let  several  swallows  pour  down  his 
leathery  neck.  The  stuff  brought 
tears  to  his  eyes.  He  blinked  them 
away  and  wiped  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand.  “All  right, 
public  guardian,  I’ll  tell  you.  It’s 
pretty  obvious,  and  other  medical 
men  will  think  of  it  pretty  quick, 
I suppose — when  they  find  out  the 
cause  of  the  punctures  they  are 
treating.  This  fever  is  just  more  of 
the  same.  Peritonitis.  Only  it’s 
caused  by  particles  so  small  that 
you  can’t  even  feel  when  they  pene- 
trate the  skin.  They’re  large  enough 
to  poke  holes  in  your  intestines, 
though.  Large  enough  to  make 
microscopic  passages  for  bacteria. 
So,  you  see,  for  every  bleeding  pa- 
tient, there  will  be  hundreds,  thou- 
sands, coming  down  with  perito- 
nitis— infection  of  the  body  cavity 
from  within.  Without  drugs  the  in- 
flammation spreads  in  hours,  and 
the  temperature  goes  up  and  up. 
It’s  fatal.” 

I could  almost  feel  the  pain  in 
my  belly  and  the  fire  in  my  veins 
as  he  spoke.  Doc  Thorsen  took 
another  drink  and  handed  me  the 
bottle.  “You  look  a little  pale.  Gene. 
Have  a jolt  and  see  if  your  guts 
leak.” 

Durstine  and  I both  had  a drink, 
and  the  chief  said,  “I  see  what 
you  meant.  I wish  you’d  kept  your 
mouth  shut.” 

I said,  “Dammit,  we’ve  got  to  do 
something.” 

“Like  what?”  Durstine  asked  bit- 

73 


terly.  “Like  quarantining  the 
schools  and  the  playgrounds?” 

Thorsen  nodded  grimly.  “And 
the  parks?  And  all  back  yards  and 
front  yards?” 

Durstine  picked  it  up  again. 
“And  empty  lots  and  all  sidewalks 
and  streets  and  public  buildings 
and  the  whole  damned  outdoors 
plus  the  indoors?” 

The  enormity  of  the  problem  be- 
gan to  sink  into  my  tired  brain.  In 
the  space  of  weeks,  more  than  30 
million  i-Guns  were  sold  in  the 
United  States  alone.  Multiply  that 
figure  by  the  number  of  times  each 
was  fired.  Ten?  Fifty?  A hundred 
times?  Only  God  knew  how  many 
billion  nails,  tacks,  screws  and 
rivets  were  launched  into  limbo, 
and  were  now  just  beginning  to 
return — ^invisible  at  first — to  skewer 
the  American  people. 

Wherever  kids  had  played — and 
that  was  virtually  everywhere — 
death  was  hidden.  And  the  semi- 
visible  particles  would  keep  emerg- 
ing for  weeks,  in  the  order  that 
they  were  shot  into  the  other  di- 
mension. Worse  yet,  at  the  slow  rate 
of  emergence,  it  would  be  months 
or  years  before  the  metallic  flotsam 
returned  completely  and  dropped 
to  earth! 

A man  could  protect  himself  only 
by  remaining  motionless.  But  so- 
ciety was  geared  to  motion,  fast, 
space-covering  motion.  The  nation 
would  starve  to  death,  if  everyone 
didn’t  go  insane  first  and  tear  them- 
selves to  pieces  running  around. 

“We’ve  got  to  get  Ae  secret  of 
that  extractor  out  of  Calvin  Bax- 
ter,” I said.  “If  we  can  discover 
the  principle,  we  can  build  large 

74 


models,  like  a vacuum  cleaner — 


Getting  Baxter  into  City  Hos- 
pital and  finding  a competent 
surgeon  in  good  enough  condition 
to  perform  the  delicate  operation, 
took  almost  twenty-four  hours.  The 
hospital  resembled  an  abattoir,  the 
corridor  floors  slick  from  the  drip- 
pings of  fresh  blood,  as  people 
seeking  help  wandered  frantically 
from  floor  to  floor. 

Somehow  we  managed  to  im- 
press upon  the  staff  the  fact  that 
Baxter  had  priority,  and  we  were 
allowed  on  the  operating  floor, 
which  was  guarded  at  all  entries. 

Sick  with  exhaustion,  I waited 
with  Durstine.  Thorsen  was  im- 
pressed into  duty  immediately,  and 
that  was  the  last  we  saw  of  him.  It 
was  a good  many  hours  before  they 
called  us  into  the  operating  room.  I 
won’t  try  to  describe  the  sight  in 
detail.  Surgeons  and  nurses  hovered 
over  tables,  weaving  like  drunken 
butchers  in  blood-soaked  aprons. 
In  one  corner,  on  a cot,  Baxter  lay 
with  his  head  and  shoulders 
propped  up  high.  His  feet  hung 
over  the  end  at  least  fourteen 
inches.  A single  sheet  covered 
him. 

The  top  of  his  skull  was  band- 
aged, and  he  looked  even  paler 
than  before.  A doctor  and  one 
nurse  stood  on  either  side  of  him. 
As  we  came  in  the  doctor  said, 
“I’ve  been  told  of  the  problem. 
We’ve  done  all  we  can,  but  this 
man  is  dying.  I think  we  can  bring 
him  to  consciousness  for  a few 
minutes.  It’s  a terribly  cruel  thing 
to  do,  and  I’m  not  sure  he  will  be 

WINSTON  AAARKS 


coherent.  Are  you  sure  you  want 
me  to  try?” 

“It’s  his  invention  that  brought 
on  all  of  this,”  I said.  “If  there’s 
any  solution  to  it,  he  has  it  in  his 
head.” 

“Very  well.” 

He  did  things  with  a hypodermic 
needle  while  the  nurse  rigged  an 
oxygen  tent.  I’he  smell  of  ether 
and  blood  made  me  sicker.  My 
throat  was  dry,  and  I remember 
wishing  I hadn’t  drunk  Durstine’s 
whiskey.  As  we  stood  waiting  the 
humid  air  felt  almost  unbearably 
hot,  and  I had  difficulty  focussing 
my  eyes. 

Durstine  looked  terrible,  hollow- 
eyed,  unshaven,  but  he  seemed  in 
better  shape  than  I.  It  was  he  who 
caught  the  first  flicker  of  Baxter’s 
eyes  and  dropped  to  his  knees.  The 
color  came  back  to  the  scientist’s 
face  in  a rush  of  pink,  and  his  chest 
heaved  with  deep  breathing. 

“Can  you  hear  me?”  Durstine 
began. 

An  hour  later  Baxter  was  dead 
as  predicted.  And  so  was  all  hope 
of  removing  the  lethal  debris  with 
his  other  invention.  The  “extractor” 
didn’t  work,  he  had  told  us.  Yes, 
he’d  been  trying  to  reverse  the  field 
to  retrieve  the  metallic  objects 
from  the  other  dimension,  hut  the 
experiment  was  a failure! 

Durstine  took  my  arm.  “Gome 
on.  Gene.  We’ve  done  all  we  can. 
I know  one  safe  place — a place 
where  no  kids  ever  played.” 

“Yeah,  I know,”  I said  with  a 
tongue  two  sizes  too  big.  “The  near- 
est bar.  The  damned  kids!  They’ve 
murdered  us!  Led  Baxter  and  the 


damned  kids!” 

Things  were  turning  gray,  but  I 
remember  the  chief  catching  me 
by  the  shoulder  and  jerking;  me 
around.  Too  late  1 rememJbered 
about  his  little  Jerry  and  the  agony 
my  words  must  have  carvedl  in  his 
heart.  I wished  he’d  slug  me,  but 
he  didn’t.  He  looked  at  me  for  a 
long  minute  and  said  something  I 
don’t  remember,  because  the  fog 
closed  in — a hot,  dry  fog  that  swept 
into  my  brain  and  blacked  out  the 
h'ght.  I don’t  even  remember  fall- 
ing. 

The  last  thought  I had  was,  the 
fever!  Fve  got  it.  And  Thorsen  said 
there  were  no  more  antibiotics  or 
drugs  left  in  the  city. 


SOME  WEEKS  later  it  was  a 
surprise  but  no  pleasure,  to  dis- 
cover I was  still  alive.  Through  the 
smoke  of  my  unfocussed  eyes  I 
could  tell  that  my  “private”  room 
was  occupied  by  at  least  a dozen 
other  patients.  Some  were  on  cots 
and  some,  like  me,  simply  lay  on 
the  floor  v/ith  a blanket  over  them. 

I had  one  30-second  visit  from 
the  doctor  before  Durstine  came  to 
take  me  away.  The  doc  said  simply, 
“You’re  a lucky  man,  Lieutenant. 
We  didn’t  save  many  ‘fever’  pa- 
tients after  the  drugs  ran  out.” 
The  chief  brought  a couple  of 
boys  in  blue  with  a stretcher  to 
haul  me  out,  I w^as  amazed  to  dis- 
cover that  automobiles  were  still 
moving  about  the  streets — not 
many,  but  a few.  I was  too  sick  and 
exhausted  to  talk  during  the  ride. 

Durstine  rode  in  back  with  me,  a 
hand  on  my  shoulder.  “Don’t  wor- 


BLEEDBACK 


75 


ry;  Gfene,”  he  said.  “You’re  going 
to  be  all  right.  And  we’ve  got  this 
thing  pretty  well  licked.” 

He  looked  into  my  eyes  and  read 
the  question  I was  too  weak  to 
speak  aloud. 

“No/’  he  said,  “we  didn’t  figure 
out  Baxter’s  extractor.  But  we  do 
have  a successful  detector,  and  all 
we  have  to  do  now  is  use  it — 
then  hang  a tin  can  or  an  old  ketch- 
up bottle  on  each  speck  of  metal 
for  a marker.  Yeah,  the  coimtry’s 
going  to  be  cluttered  up  like  a 
hanging  garbage  dump  for  a long 
time,  but  if  you  can  see  ’em  you 
can  dodge  ’em.” 

A detector?  Why,  they’d  have  to 
equip  every  person  in  the  country 
with  one!  And  surely  nothing  less 
than  an  electronic,  radar-type 
gadget  could  detect  the  microscopic 
particles  as  they  first  began 
to  emerge — the  kind  that  had 
riddled  my  intestines  and  given 
me  the  fever  without  even  leaving 
a mark  on  my  skin. 

“I  know  what  you  are  thinking,” 
Durstine  said.  His  face  was  gray 
and  drawn,  but  he  wore  a faint 
smile.  “It  was  simple  when  some- 
body thought  of  it.  What  would  be 
cheap  enough  to  distribute  univer- 
sally, yet  effective  enough  to  give 
you  positive  warning?  You  see, 
these  tiny  particles  are  so  fine  at 
first  that  you  can  fan  the  air  with 
a plank  and  never  know  when  one 
passes  through.” 

He  raised  me  up  from  the 
stretcher  and  let  me  look  out  the 
window  of  the  police  ambulance. 


Through  squinted  eyes  I made  out 
a strange  sight.  A thin  scattering  of 
pedestrians  was  moving  slowly  on 
the  sidewalks,  winding  their  ways 
among  a random  collection  of 
floating  tin  cans  and  inverted 
bottles. 

When  we  stopped  for  a red  light 
I watched  a young  woman  in  a 
business  suit  step  between  a whiskey 
bottle  head-high,  and  a bean  can 
about  knee-high,  and  then  proceed 
gingerly  waving  a colored  sphere 
ahead  of  her.  This  sphere,  about 
eighteen  inches  in  diameter,  sud- 
denly disappeared.  She  stopped 
abruptly  and  began  shouting.  Be- 
fore the  traffic  light  turned  green, 
a man  came  up  with  an  empty 
motor  oil  can  and  placed  it  on  the 
sidewalk,  under  the  point  she  in- 
dicated in  the  air  before  her. 

Durstine  explained,  “When  that 
speck  gets  large  enough  to  support 
it,  that  can  will  be  hung  on  it. 
Meanwhile,  other  people  are  fore- 
warned that  the  air  over  the  can  is 
out-of-bounds,  so  they  won’t  waste 
detectors  on  it.” 

As  he  spoke,  the  young  woman 
was  fishing  another  “detector”  from 
her  purse.  It  was  a limp  bit  of  some- 
thing which  she  placed  to  her  lips 
and  inflated  until  it  was  a foot-and- 
a-half  in  diameter,  then  she  tied 
off  the  neck  and  proceeded  down 
the  walk  waving  it  before  her  in 
great  vertical  sweeps. 

It  was  as  simple  as  that. 

Our  undoing  had  been  a 85- 
cent  kid’s  toy.  And  our  salvation 
was  a penny-balloon!  • • • 


Science  surpasses  the  old  miracles  of  mythology.  — Emerson 

76 


what  Is  Your  Science  I.  Q.? 

HERE’S  ANOTHER  QUIZ  to  test  your  knowledge  of  the 

scientific  facts  that  you  read  about  in  science  fiction.  How  well 

do  you  know  them?  Counting  five  for  each  correct  answer,  you 

should  score  50.  Anything  over  65  makes  you  a veritable  Mr. 

Wizard.  See  page  120  for  the  answers. 

1.  A googol  is  a one  followed  by zeros. 

2.  What  percent  of  the  moon’s  surface  has  been  able  to  be 
observed  by  astronomers? 

3.  The  measure  of  the  extent  to  which  one  atom  is  able  to 

combine  directly  with  others  is  known  as  the 

4.  In  which  constellation  is  the  point  which  is  known  as  “the 
apex  of  the  Sun’s  way”? 

5.  The  substitution  of  machines  or  mechanical  devices  for 

human  beings  in  a manufacturing  process  is  described  by  the 
newly  coined  word 

6.  What  is  the  scientific  term  for  the  bright  streaks  or  areas  on 
the  surface  of  the  Sun? 

7.  Zero  on  the  Fahrenheit  scale  represents  the  temperature 
produced  by  the  mixing  of  equal  weights  of  snow  and 

8.  The  distance  from  the  Earth  to  the  Sun,  93,003,000  miles, 
is  the  basis  for  what  unit  of  measurement? 

9.  The  height  of  the  Earth’s  atmosphere  is  600  miles,  but  about 

half  of  it  by  weight  is  below feet. 

10.  What  is  the  term  used  to  describe  different  forms  of  the  same 
element  which  have  the  same  atomic  number  but  different 
atomic  weights? 

1 1 . The  mass  of  the  Earth  is  equal  to sextillion  tons. 

12.  Are  sidereal  days  longer  or  shorter  than  solar  days? 

13.  The  atomic  weight  of  any  element  is  represented  by  the  total 

number  of  neutrons  and 

14.  What  is  the  polar  radius  of  the  Earth  in  statute  miles? 

15.  If  an  astronomical  unit  were  represented  by  one  inch,  a light 

year  would  be  represented  by  about 

16.  During  the  fusion  of  deuterium  and  tritium,  hydrogen  is 
transmuted  into  what  other  element? 

17.  The  tail  of  a comet  always  trails  from  the  head  in  a direction 
the  sun. 

18.  The  rotational  speed  of  the  Sun  varies  from  about  24  2/3  days 

at  the  equator  to  approximately days  near  its  poles. 


77 


THE  MOLD 


BY 


The  obvious  signs  were  missing,  yet  Callisto  was 


moving  steadily  toward  a state  of  totalitarianism. 


All  the  people  were  beginning  to  be  exactly  alike! 


Leon  SIPLING  groaned  and 
pushed  away  his  work  papers. 
In  an  organization  of  thousands 
he  was  the  only  employee  not  put- 
ting out.  Probably  he  was  the  only 
yance-man  on  Callisto  not  doing 
his  job.  Fear,  and  the  quick  pluck- 
ings  of  desperation,  made  him 
reach  up  and  wave  on  the  audio 
circuit  to  Babson,  the  over-all  of- 
fice controller. 

“Say,”  Sipling  said  hoarsely,  “I 
think  Pm  stuck,  Bab.  How  about 
running  the  gestalt  through,  up  to 
my  spot?  Maybe  I can  pick  up  the 
rhythm  . . He  grinned  weakly. 
“The  hum  of  other  creative  minds.” 
After  a speculative  moment,  Bab- 
son reached  for  the  impulse  synap- 
sis, his  massive  face  unsympathetic. 


OF  YANCY 


PHILIP  K.  DICK 


“You  holding  up  progress.  Sip? 
This  has  to  be  integrated  with  the 
daily  by  six  tonight.  The  schedule 
calls  for  the  works  to  be  on  the 
vidlines  during  the  dinner-hour 
stretch.” 

1 he  visual  side  of  the  gestalt  had 
already  begun  to  form  on  the  wall 
screen;  Sipling  turned  his  attention 
to  it,  grateful  of  a chance  to  escape 
Babson’ s cold  glare. 

The  screen  showed  a 3-D  of 
Yancy,  the  usual  three-quarter 
view,  from  the  waist  up.  John  Ed- 
ward Yancy  in  his  faded  work- 
shirt,  sleeves  rolled  up,  arms  brown 
and  furry.  A middle-aged  man  in 
his  late  fifties,  his  face  sunburned, 
neck  slightly  red,  a good-natured 
smile  on  his  face,  squinting  because 
he  was  looking  into  the  sun.  Behind 
Yancy  was  a still  of  his  yard,  his 
garage,  his  flower  garden,  lawn,  the 
back  of  his  neat  little  white  plastic 
house.  Yancy  ^nned  at  Sipling: 
a neighbor  pausing  in  the  middle  of 
a summer  day,  perspiring  from  the 
heat  and  the  exertion  of  mowing 
his  lawn,  about  to  launch  into  a 
few  harmless  remarks  about  the 
weather,  the  state  of  the  planet, 
the  condition  of  die  neighborhood. 


79 


“Say,”  Yancy  said,  in  the  audio 
phones  propped  up  on  Sipling’s 
desk.  His  voice  was  low,  personal. 
“The  darndest  thing  happened  to 
my  grandson  Ralf,  the  oAer  morn- 
ing. You  know  how  Ralf  is;  he’s  al- 
ways getting  to  school  half  an  hour 
early  . . . says  he  likes  to  be  in 
his  seat  before  anybody  else.” 

“That  eager-beaver,”  Joe  Pines, 
at  the  next  desk,  cat-called. 

From  the  screen,  Yancy’s  voice 
rolled  on,  confident,  amiable,  un- 
disturbed. “Well,  Ralf  saw  this 
squirrel;  it  was  just  sitting  there 
on  the  sidewalk.  He  stopped  for  a 
minute  and  watched.”  The  look 
on  Yancy’s  face  was  so  real  that 
Sipling  almost  believed  him.  He 
could,  almost,  see  the  squirrel  and 
the  tow-headed  youngest  grandson 
of  the  Yancy  family,  the  familiar 
child  of  the  familiar  son  of  the 
planet’s  most  familiar — and  beloved 
— person. 

“This  squirrel,”  Yancy  ex- 
plained, in  his  homey  way,  “was 
collecting  nuts.  And  by  golly,  this 
was  just  the  other  day,  only  the 
middle  of  June.  And  here  was  this 
little  squirrel — ” with  his  hands  he 
indicated  the  size,  “collecting  these 
nuts  and  carrying  them  ofT  for  win- 
ter.” 

And  then,  the  amused,  anecdote- 
look  on  Yancy’s  face  faded.  A 
serious,  thoughtful  look  replaced  it : 
the  meaningful-look.  His  blue  eyes 
darkened  (good  color  work).  His 
jaw  became  more  square,  more  im- 
posing (good  dummy-switch  by  the 
android  crew).  Yancy  seemed  old- 
er, more  solemn  and  mature,  more 
impressive.  Behind  him,  the  garden- 
scene  had  been  jerked  and  a slight- 


ly different  backdrop  filtered  in; 
Yancy  now  stood  firmly  planted  in 
a cosmic  landscape,  among  moun- 
tains and  winds  and  huge  old 
forests. 

“I  got  to  thinking,”  Yancy  said, 
and  his  voice  was  deeper,  slower. 
“There  was  that  little  squirrel.  How 
did  he  know  winter  was  coming? 
There  he  was,  working  away,  get- 
ting prepared  for  it.”  Yancy’s  voice 
rose.  “Preparing  for  a winter  he’d 
never  seen.” 

Sipling  stiffened  and  prepared 
himself;  it  was  coming.  At  his  desk, 
Joe  Pines  grinned  and  yelled:  “Get 
set!” 

“That  squirrel,”  Yancy  said 
solemnly,  “had  faith.  No,  he  never 
saw  any  sign  of  winter.  But  he  knew 
winter  was  coming.”  The  firm  jaw 
moved;  one  hand  came  slowly 
up  . . . 

And  then  the  image  stopped.  It 
froze,  immobile,  silent.  No  words 
came  from  it;  abruptly  the  sermon 
ended,  in  the  middle  of  a para- 
graph. 

“That’s  it,”  Babson  said  briskly, 
filtering  the  Yancy  out.  “Help  you 
any?” 

Sipling  pawed  jerkily  at  his  work 
papers.  “No,”  he  admitted,  “actual- 
ly it  doesn’t.  But — I’ll  get  it  worked 
out.” 

“I  hope  so.”  Babson’s  face  dark- 
ened ominously  and  his  small  mean 
eyes  seemed  to  grow  smaJler. 
“What’s  the  matter  with  you? 
Home  problems?” 

“I’ll  be  okay,”  Sipling  muttered, 
sweating.  “Thanks.” 

On  the  screen  a faint  impression 
of  Yancy  remained,  still  poised 
at  the  word  coming.  The  rest  of 

PHILIP  K.  DICK 


80 


the  gestalt  was  in  Sipling^s  head: 
the  continuing  slice  of  words  and 
gestures  hadn’t  been  worked  out 
and  fed  to  the  composite.  Sipling’s 
contribution  was  missing,  so  the 
entire  gestalt  was  stopped  cold  in 
its  tracks. 

“Say,”  Joe  Pines  said  uneasily, 
“I’ll  be  glad  to  take  over,  today. 
Cut  your  desk  out  of  the  circuit 
and  I’ll  cut  myself  in.” 

“Thanks,”  Sipling  muttered, 
“but  I’m  the  only  one  who  can 
get  this  damn  part.  It’s  the  central 
gem.” 

“You  ought  to  take  a rest.  You’ve 
been  working  too  hard.” 

“Yes,”  Sipling  agreed,  on  the 
verge  of  hysteria.  “I’m  a Httle  un- 
der the  weather.” 

That  was  obvious:  everybody  in 
the  office  could  see  that.  But  only 
Sipling  knew  why.  And  he  was 
fighting  with  all  his  strength  to 
keep  from  screaming  out  the  reason 
at  the  top  of  his  limgs. 

Basic  analysis  of  the  political 
milieu  at  Callisto  was  laid  out  by 
Niplan  computing  apparatus  at 
Washington,  D.G.;  but  the  final 
evaluations  were  done  by  human 
technicians.  The  Washin^on  com- 
puters could  ascertain  that  the  Gal- 
listo  political  structure  was  moving 
toward  a totalitarian  make-up,  but 
they  couldn’t  say  what  that  in- 
dicated. Human  beings  were  re- 
qmred  to  class  the  drift  as  malign. 

“It  isn’t  possible,”  Taverner 
protested.  “There’s  constant  in- 
dustrial traffic  in  and  out  of  Cal- 
listo; except  for  the  Ganymede  syn- 
dicate they’ve  got  out-planet  com- 
merce bottled  up.  We’d  know  as 

the  mold  of  YANCY 


soon  as  anything  phony  got 
started.” 

“How  would  we  know?”  Police 
Director  Kellman  inquired. 

Taverner  indicated  the  data- 
sheets, graphs  and  charts  of  figures 
and  percentages  that  covered  the 
walls  of  the  Niplan  Police  offices. 
“It  would  show  up  in  hundreds  of 
ways.  Terrorist  raids,  political  pris- 
ons, extermination  camps.  We’d 
hear  about  political  recanting, 
treason,  disloyalty  ...  all  the  basic 
props  of  a dictatorship.” 

“Don’t  confuse  a totalitarian  so- 
ciety with  a dictatorship,”  Kellman 
said  drily.  “A  totalitarian  state 
reaches  into  every  sphere  of  its 
citizens’  lives,  forms  their  opinions 
on  every  subject.  The  government 
can  be  a dictatorship,  or  a parlia- 
ment, or  an  elected  president,  or  a 
council  of  priests.  That  doesn’t  mat- 
ter.” 

“All  right,”  Taverner  said,  molli- 
fied. “I’ll  go.  I’ll  take  a team  there 
and  see  what  they’re  doing.” 

“Gan  you  make  yourselves  look 
like  Gallistotes?” 

“What  are  they  like?” 

“I’m  not  sure,”  Kellman  ad- 
mitted thoughtfully,  with  a glance 
at  the  elaborate  wall  charts.  “But 
whatever  it  is,  they’re  all  beginning 
to  turn  out  alike.” 

Among  its  passengers  the  inter- 
plan commercial  liner  that  settled 
down  at  Gallisto  carried  Peter 
Taverner,  his  wife,  and  their  two 
children.  With  a grimace  of  con- 
cern, Taverner  made  out  the  shapes 
of  local  officials  waiting  at  the  exit 
hatch.  The  passengers  were  going 
to  be  carefully  screened;  as  the 


81 


ramp  descended,  the  clot  of  officials 
moved  forward. 

Taverner  got  to  his  feet  and  col- 
lected his  family.  “Ignore  them/’ 
he  told  Ruth.  “Our  papers  will  get 
us  by.” 

Expertly  prepared  documents 
identified  him  as  a speculator  in 
nonferric  metals,  ' looking  for  a 
wholesale  outlet  to  handle  his  job- 
bing. Gallisto  was  a clearing-point 
for  land  and  mineral  operations;  a 
constant  flood  of  wealth-hungry  en- 
trepreneurs streamed  back  and 
forth,  carting  raw  materials  from 
the  underdeveloped  moons,  hauling 
mining  equipment  from  the  inner 
planets. 

Cautiously,  Taverner  arranged 
his  topcoat  over  his  arm.  A heavy- 
set  man,  in  his  middle  thirties,  he 
could  have  passed  for  a successful 
business  operator.  His  double- 
breasted  business  suit  was  expensive, 
but  conservative.  His  big  shoes 
were  brightly  shined.  All  things  con- 
sidered, he’d  probably  get  by.  As 
he  and  his  family  moved  toward 
the  exit  ramp,  they  presented  a 
perfect  and  exact  imitation  of  the 
out-planet  business-class. 

“State  your  business,”  a green- 
uniformed  official  demanded,  pen- 
cil poised.  I-d  tabs  were  being 
checked,  photographed,  recorded. 
Brain  pattern  comparisons  were  be- 
ing made : the  usual  routine. 

“Nonferric  enterprises,”  Tavern- 
er began,  but  a second  official  cut 
him  abruptly  off> 

“You’re  the  third  cop  this  morn- 
ing. What’s  biting  you  people  on 
Terra?”  The  official  eyed  Taverner 
intently.  “We’re  getting  more  cops 
than  ministers.” 


Trying  to  maintain  his  poise, 
Taverner  answered  evenly:  “I’m 
here  to  take  a rest.  Acute  alcohol- 
ism— nothing  official.” 

“That’s  what  your  cohorts  said,” 
The  official  grinned  humorlessly. 
“Well,  what’s  one  more  Terran 
cop?”  He  slid  the  lock-bars  aside 
and  waved  Taverner  and  his  family 
through.  “Welcome  to  Gallisto. 
Have  fun — enjoy  yourselves.  Fast- 
est-growing moon  in  the  system.” 
“Practically  a planet,”  Taverner 
commented  ironically. 

“Any  day,  now.”  The  official  ex- 
amined some  reports.  “According 
to  our  friends  in  your  little  organi- 
zation, you’ve  been  pasting  up  wall 
graphs  and  charts  about  us.  Are  we 
that  important?” 

“Academic  interest,”  Taverner 
said ; if  three  spots  had  been  made, 
then  the  whole  team  had  been  net- 
ted. The  local  authorities  were  ob- 
viously primed  to  detect  infiltra- 
tion . . . the  realization  chilled  him. 

But  they  were  letting  him 
through.  Were  they  that  confident? 

Things  didn’t  look  good.  Peer- 
ing around  for  a cab,  he  grimly  pre- 
pared to  undertake  the  business  of 
integrating  the  scattered  team 
members  into  a functioning  whole. 


That  evening,  at  the  Stay- 

Lit  bar  on  the  main  street  of 
the  commercial  district  of  town, 
Taverner  met  with  his  two  team 
members.  Hunched  over  their 
whiskey  sours,  they  compared  notes. 

“I’ve  been  here  almost  twelve 
hours,”  Eckmund  stated,  gazing  im- 
passively at  the  rows  of  bottles  in 
the  gloomy  depths  of  the  bar.  Gigar 


82 


PHILIP  K.  DICK 


smoke  hovered  in  the  air ; the  auto- 
matic music  box  in  the  corner 
banged  away  metallically.  “I’ve 
been  walking  around  town,  looking 
at  things,  making  observations.” 

“Me,”  Dorser  said,  “I’ve  been  at 
the  tape-library.  Getting  official 
myth,  comparing  it  to  Callistote 
reality.  And  talking  to  the  scholars 
— educated  people  hanging  around 
the  scanning  rooms.” 

Taverner  sipped  his  drink.  “Any- 
thing of  interest?” 

“You  know  the  primitive  rule- 
of-thumb  test,”  Eckmimd  said  wry- 
ly. “I  loafed  around  on  a slum 
street  corner  until  I got  in  a con- 
versation with  some  people  wait- 
ing for  a bus.  I started  knocking 
the  authorities:  complaining  about 
the  bus  service,  the  sewage  disposal, 
taxes,  everything.  They  chimed 
right  in.  Heartily.  No  hesitation. 
And  no  fear.” 

“The  legal  government,”  Dorser 
commented,  “is  set  up  in  the  usual 
archaic  fashion.  Two-party  system, 
one  a little  more  conservative  than 
the  other — ^no  fundamental  dif- 
ference of  course.  But  both  elect 
candidates  at  open  primaries,  bal- 
lots circulated  to  all  registered  vo- 
ters.” A spasm  of  amusement 
touched  him.  “This  is  a model  de- 
mocracy. I read  the  text  books. 
Nothing  but  idealistic  slogans : free- 
dom of  speech,  assembly,  religion 
— the  works.  Same  old  grammar 
school  stuff.” 

The  three  of  them  were  tem- 
porarily silent. 

“There  are  jails,”  Taverner  said 
slowly.  “Every  society  has  law  viola- 
tions.” 

“I  visited  one,”  Eckmund  said, 
THE  MOLD  OF  YANCY 


belching.  “Petty  thieves,  murderers, 
claim-jumpers,  strong-arm  hoods 
— the  usual.” 

“No  political  prisoners?” 

“No.”  Eckmund  raised  his  voice. 
“We  might  as  well  discuss  this  at 
the  top  of  our  lungs.  Nobody  cares 
— the  authorities  don’t  care.” 
“Probably  after  we’re  gone  they’ll 
clap  a few  thousand  people  into 
prison,”  Dorser  murmured  thought- 
fully. 

“My  God,”  Eckmund  retorted, 
“people  can  leave  Gallisto  any  time 
they  want.  If  you’re  operating  a 
police  state  you  have  to  keep  your 
borders  shut.  And  these  borders  are 
wide  open.  People  pour  in  and  out.” 
“Maybe  it’s  a chemical  in  the 
drinking  water,”  Dorser  suggested. 

“How  the  hell  can  they  have  a 
totalitarian  society  without  terror- 
ism?” Eckmund  demanded  rhetori- 
cally. “I’ll  swear  to  it — there  are 
no  thought-control  cops  here. 
There  is  absolutely  no  fear.” 

“Somehow,  pressure  is  being  ex- 
erted,” Taverner  persisted. 

“Not  by  cops,”  Dorser  said  em- 
phatically. “Not  by  force  and  bru- 
tality. Not  by  illegal  arrest  and  im- 
prisonment and  forced  labor.” 

“If  this  were  a police  state,”  Eck- 
mund said  thoughtfully,  “there’d 
be  some  kind  of  resistance  move- 
ment. Some  sort  of  ‘subversive’ 
group  trying  to  overthrow  the  au- 
thorities. But  in  this  society  you’re 
free  to  complain;  you  can  buy 
time  on  the  t-v  and  radio  stations, 
you  can  buy  space  in  the  news- 
papers— anything  you  want.”  He 
shrugged.  “So  how  can  there  be  a 
clandestine  resistance  movement? 
It’s  silly.” 


83. 


“Nevertheless,”  Taverner  said, 
“these  people  are  living  in  a one- 
party  society,  with  a party  line,  with 
an  official  ideology.  They  show  the 
effects  of  a carefully  controlled  to- 
talitarian state.  They’re  guinea  pigs 
— whether  they  realize  it  or  not.” 

“Wouldn’t  they  realize  it?” 

Baffled,  Taverner  shook  his  head. 
“I  would  have  thought  so.  There 
must  be  some  mechanism  we  don’t 
understand.” 

“It’s  all  open.  We  can  look  every- 
thing over.” 

“We  must  be  looking  for  the 
wrong  thing.”  Idly,  Taverner  gazed 
at  the  television  screen  above  the 
bar.  The  nude  girlie  song-and- 
dance  routine  had  ended;  now  the 
features  of  a man  faded  into  view. 
A genial,  round-faced  man  in  his 
fifties,  with  guileless  blue  eyes,  an 
almost  childish  twitch  to  his  lips, 
a fringe  of  brown  hair  playing 
around  his  slightly  prominent  ears. 

“Friends,”  the  t-v  image  rum- 
bled, “it’s  good  to  be  with  you 
again,  tonight.  I thought  I might 
have  a little  chat  with  you.” 

“A  commercial,”  Dorser  said, 
signalling  the  bartending  machine 
for  another  drink. 

“Who  is  that?”  Taverner  asked 
curiously. 

“That  kindly-looking  geezer?” 
Eckmund  examined  his  notes.  “A 
sort  of  popular  commentator.  Name 
of  Yancy.” 

“Is  he  part  of  the  government?” 

“Not  that  I know  of.  A kind  of 
home-spun  philosopher.  I picked 
up  a biography  of  him  on  a maga- 
zine stand.”  Eckmund  passed  the 
gaily-colored  pamphlet  to  his  boss. 
“Totally  ordinary  man,  as  far  as 


I can  see.  Used  to  be  a soldier; 
in  the  Mars- Jupiter  War  he 
distin^ished  himself — battlefield 

commission.  Rose  to  the  rank  of 
major.”  He  shrugged  indifferently. 
“A  sort  of  talking  almanac.  Pithy 
sayings  on  every  topic.  Wise  old 
saws:  how  to  cure  a chest  cold. 
What  the  trouble  is  back  on  Terra.” 
Taverner  examined  the  booklet. 
“Yes,  I saw  his  picture  around.” 
“Very  popular  figure.  Loved  by 
the  masses.  Man  of  the  people — 
speaks  for  them.  When  I was  buy- 
ing cigarettes  I noticed  he  endorses 
one  particular  brand.  Very  popular 
brand,  now;  just  about  driven  the 
others  off  the  market.  Same  with 
beer.  The  Scotch  in  this  glass  is 
probably  the  brand  Yancy  endorses. 
The  same  with  tennis  balls.  Only 
he  doesn’t  play  tennis — he  plays 
croquet.  All  the  time,  every  week- 
end.” Accepting  his  fresh  drink 
Eckmund  finished,  “So  now  every- 
body plays  croquet.” 

“How  can  croquet  be  a planet- 
wide sport?”  Taverner  demanded. 

“This  isn’t  a planet,”  Dorser  put 
in.  “It’s  a pipsqueak  moon.” 

“Not  according  to  Yancy,”  Eck- 
mund said.  “We’re  supposed  to 
think  of  Gallisto  as  a planet.” 
“How?”  Taverner  asked. 
“Spiritually,  it’s  a planet.  Yancy 
likes  people  to  take  a spiritual  view 
of  matters.  He’s  strong  on  God  and 
honesty  in  government  and  being 
hard-working  and  clean-cut. 
Warmed-over  truisms.” 

The  expression  on  Taverner’s 
face  hardened.  “Interesting,”  he 
murmured.  “I’ll  have  to  drop  by 
and  meet  him.” 

“Why?  He’s  the  dullest,  most 
PHILIP  K.  DICK 


84 


mediocre  man  you  could  dream 
up.” 

“Maybe/’  Taverner  answered, 
“that’s  why  I’m  interested.” 

Babson,  huge  and  menacing,  met 
Taverner  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Yancy  Building.  “Of  course  you 
can  meet  Mr.  Yancy.  But  he’s  a 
busy  man — it’ll  take  awhile  to 
squeeze  in  an  appointment.  Every- 
body wants  to  meet  Mr.  Yancy.” 
Taverner  was  unimpressed. 
“How  long  do  I have  to  wait?” 

As  they  crossed  the  main  lobby 
to  the  elevators,  Babson  made  a 
computation.  “Oh,  say  four 
months.” 

“Four  months 

“John  Yancy  is  just  about  the 
most  popular  man  alive.” 

“Around  here,  maybe,”  Taverner 
commented  angrily,  as  they  en- 
tered the  packed  elevator.  “I  never 
heard  of  him  before.  If  he’s  got  so 
much  on  the  ball,  why  isn’t  he 
piped  all  around  Niplan?” 

“Actually,”  Babson  admitted,  in 
a hoarse,  confidential  whisper,  “I 
can’t  imagine  what  people  see  in 
Yancy.  As  far  as  I’m  concerned 
he’s  just  a big  bag  of  wind.  But 
people  around  here  enjoy  him. 
After  all,  Callisto  is — provincial. 
Yancy  appeals  to  a certain  type  of 
rural  mind — to  people  who  like 
their  world  simple.  I’m  afraid  Ter- 
ra would  be  too  sophisticated  for 
Yancy.” 

“Have  you  tried?” 

“Not  yet,”  Babson  said.  Reflec- 
tively, he  added:  “Maybe  later.” 
While  Taverner  was  pondering 
the  meaning  of  the  big  man’s  words, 
the  elevator  ceased  climbing.  The 

THE  MOLD  OF  YANCY 


two  of  them  stepped  off  into  a luxu- 
rious, carpeted  hall,  illuminated  by 
recessed  lights.  Babson  pushed  open 
a door,  and  they  entered  a large, 
active  office. 

Inside,  a screening  of  a recent 
Yancy  gestalt  was  in  progress.  A 
group  of  yance-men  watched  it 
silently,  faces  alert  and  critical.  The 
gestalt  showed  Yancy  sitting  at  his 
old-fashioned  oak  desk,  in  his  study. 
It  was  obvious  that  he  had  been 
working  on  some  philosophical 
thoughts:  spread  out  over  the  desk 
were  books  and  papers.  On  Yancy’s 
face  was  a thoughtful  expression; 
he  sat  with  his  hand  against  his 
forehead,  features  screwed  up  into 
a solemn  study  of  concentration. 

“This  is  for  next  Sunday  morn- 
ing,” Babson  explained. 

Yancy’s  lips  moved,  and  he  spoke. 
“Friends,”  he  began,  in  his  deep, 
personal,  friendly,  man-to-man 
voice,  “I’ve  been  sitting  here  at  my 
desk — well,  about  the  way  you’re 
sitting  around  your  living  rooms.” 
A switch  in  camera  work  occurred; 
it  showed  the  open  door  of  Yancy’s 
study.  In  the  living  room  was  the 
familiar  figure  of  Yancy’s  sweet- 
faced middle-aged  homey  wife ; she 
was  sitting  on  the  comfortable  sofa 
primly  sewing.  On  the  floor  their 
grandson  Ralf  played  the  familiar 
game  of  jacks.  The  family  dog 
snoozed  in  the  corner. 

One  of  the  watching  yance-men 
made  a note  on  his  pad.  Taverner 
glanced  at  him  curiously,  baffled. 

“Of  course,  I was  in  there  with 
them,”  Yancy  continued,  smiling 
briefly.  “I  was  reading  the  funnies 
to  Ralf.  He  was  sitting  on  my 
knee.”  The  background  faded,  and 

85 


a momentary  phantom  scene  of 
Yancy  sitting  with  his  grandson  on 
his  knee  floated  into  being.  Then 
the  desk  and  the  book-lined  study 
returned.  “Fm  mighty  grateful  for 
my  family,”  Yancy  revealed.  “In 
these  times  of  stress,  it’s  my  family 
that  I turn  to,  as  my  pillar  of 
strength.” 

Another  notation  was  made  by  a 
watching  yance-man. 

“Sitting  here  in  my  study,  this 
wonderful  Sunday  morning,”  Yan- 
cy rumbled  on,  “I  realize  how  lucky 
we  are  to  be  alive,  and  to  have  this 
lovely  planet,  and  the  fine  cities 
and  houses,  all  the  things  God  has 
given  us  to  enjoy.  But  we’ve  got  to 
be  careful.  We’ve  got  to  make  sure 
we  don’t  lose  these  things.” 

A change  had  come  over  Yancy. 
It  seemed  to  Taverner  that  the 
image  was  subtly  altering.  It  wasn’t 
the  same  man ; the  good  humor  was 
gone.  This  was  an  older  man,  and 
larger.  A firm-eyed  father,  speak- 
ing to  his  children. 

“My  friends,”  Yancy  intoned, 
“there  are  forces  that  could  weaken 
this  planet.  Everything  we’ve  built 
up  for  our  loved  ones,  for  our  chil- 
dren, could  he  taken  away  from  us 
overnight.  We  must  learn  to  be  vig- 
ilant. We  must  protect  our  liberties, 
our  possessions,  our  way  of  life.  If 
we  become  divided,  and  fall  to 
bickering  among  each  other,  we 
will  be  easy  prey  for  our  enemies. 
We  must  work  together,  my  friends. 

“That’s  what  I’ve  been  thinking 
about  this  Sunday  morning.  Co- 
operation. T eamwork.  We’ve  got  to 
be  secure,  and  to  be  secure,  we  must 
be  one  united  people.  That’s  the 
key,  my  friends,  the  key  to  a more 


abundant  life.”  Pointing  out  the 
window  at  the  lawn  and  garden, 
Yancy  said:  “You  know,  I was  . . 

The  voice  trailed  off.  The  image 
froze.  Full  room  lights  came  on, 
and  the  watching  yance-men 
moved  into  muttering  activity. 

“Fine,”  one  of  them  said.  “So  far, 
at  least.  But  where’s  the  rest?” 
“Sipling,  again,”  another  an- 
swered. “His  slice  still  hasn’t  come 
through.  What’s  wrong  with  that 
guy?” 

Scowling,  Babson  detached  him- 
self. “Pardon  me,”  he  said  to  Tav- 
erner. “I’ll  have  to  excuse  myself 
— technical  matters.  You’re  free  to 
look  around,  if  you  care  to.  Help 
yourself  to  any  of  the  literature — 
anything  you  want.” 

“Thanks,”  Taverner  said  uncer- 
tainly. He  was  confused ; everything 
seemed  harmless,  even  trivial.  But 
something  basic  was  wrong. 
Suspiciously,  he  began  to  prowl. 


IT  WAS  obvious  that  John  Yancy 
had  pontificated  on  every  known 
subject.  A Yancy  opinion  on  every 
conceivable  topic  was  available  . . . 
modern  art,  or  garlic  in  cooking, 
or  the  use  of  intoxicating  beverages, 
or  eating  meat,  or  socialism,  or  war, 
or  education,  or  open-front  dresses 
on  women,  or  high  taxes,  or  athe- 
ism, or  divorce,  or  patriotism — 
every  shade  and  nuance  of  opinion 
possible. 

Was  there  any  subject  that 
Yancy  hadn^t  expressed  himself  on? 

Taverner  examined  the  volum- 
inous tapes  that  lined  the  walls  of 
the  offices.  Yancy’s  utterances  had 
run  into  billions  of  tape  feet  . . . 

PHILIP  K.  DICK 


86 


could  one  man  have  an  opinion  on 
everything  in  the  universe? 

Choosing  a tape  at  random,  he 
found  himself  being  addressed  on 
the  topic  of  table  manners. 

“You  know,”  the  miniature  Yan- 
cy  began,  his  voice  tinny  in  Taver- 
ner’s ears,  “at  dinner  the  other 
night  I happened  to  notice  how  my 
grandson  Ralf  was  cutting  his 
steak.”  Yancy  grinned  at  the  viewer, 
as  an  image  of  the  six-year-old  boy 
sawing  grimly  away  floated  briefly 
into  sight.  “Well,  I got  to  think- 
ing, there  was  Ralf  working  away 
at  that  steak,  not  having  any  luck 
with  it.  And  it  seemed  to  me — ” 

Taverner  snapped  the  tape  off 
and  returned  it  to  the  slot.  Yancy 
had  definite  opinions  on  everything 
...  or  were  they  so  definite? 

A strange  suspicion  was  growing 
in  him.  On  some  topics,  yes.  On 
minor  issues,  Yancy  had  exact  rules, 
specific  maxims  drawn  from 
mankind’s  rich  storehouse  of  folk- 
lore. But  major  philosophical  and 
political  issues  were  something  else 
again. 

Getting  out  one  of  the  many 
tapes  listed  under  War,  Taverner 
ran  it  through  at  random. 

“.  . . I’m  against  war,”  Yancy 
pronounced  angrily.  “And  I ought 
to  know;  I’ve  done  my  share  of 
fighting.” 

There  followed  a montage  of 
battle  scenes:  the  Jupiter-Mars 

War  in  which  Yancy  had  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  bravery,  his 
concern  for  his  comrades,  his  ha- 
tred of  the  enemy,  his  variety  of 
proper  emotions. 

“But,”  Yancy  continued  staunch- 
ly, “I  feel  a planet  must  be  strong. 

THE  MOLD  OF  YANCY 


We  must  not  surrender  ourselves 
meekly  . . . weakness  invites  attack 
and  fosters  aggression.  By  being 
weak  we  promote  war.  We  must 
gird  ourselves  and  protect  those  we 
love.  With  all  my  heart  and  soul 
I’m  against  useless  wars;  but  I say 
again,  as  I’ve  said  many  times  be- 
fore, a man  must  come  forward 
and  fight  a just  war.  He  must  not 
shrink  from  his  responsibility.  War 
is  a terrible  thing.  But  sometimes 
we  must  ...” 

As  he  restored  the  tape,  Taverner 
wondered  just  what  the  hell  Yancy 
had  said.  What  were  his  views  on 
war?  They  took  up  a hundred 
separate  reels  of  tape;  Yancy  was 
always  ready  to  hold  forth  on  such 
vital  and  grandiose  subjects  as  War, 
the  Planet,  God,  Taxation.  But  did 
he  say  anything? 

A cold  chill  crawled  up  Taver- 
ner’s spine.  On  specific — and  trivial 
— items  there  were  absolute  opin- 
ions: dogs  are  better  than  cats, 
grapefruit  is  too  sour  without  a 
dash  of  sugar,  it’s  good  to  get  up 
early  in  the  morning,  too  much 
drinking  is  bad.  But  on  big  topics 
...  an  empty  vacuum,  filled  with 
the  vacant  roll  of  high-sounding 
phrases.  A public  that  agreed  with 
Yancy  on  war  and  taxes  and  God 
and  planet  agreed  with  absolutely 
nothing.  And  with  everything. 

On  topics  of  importance,  they 
had  no  opinion  at  all.  They  only 
thought  they  had  an  opinion. 

Rapidly,  Taverner  scanned  tapes 
on  various  major  subjects.  It  was 
the  same  all  down  the  line.  With 
one  sentence  Yancy  gave;  with  the 
next  he  took  away.  The  total  effect 
was  a neat  cancellation,  a skillful 


87 


negation.  But  the  viewer  was  left 
with  the  illusion  of  having  con- 
sumed a rich  and  varied  intellectual 
feast.  It  was  amazing.  And  it  was 
professional:  the  ends  were  tied  up 
too  slickly  to  be  mere  accident. 

Nobody  was  as  harmless  and  va- 
pid as  John  Edward  Yancy.  He 
was  just  too  damn  good  to  be  true. 

Sweating,  Taverner  left  the  main 
reference  room  and  poked  his  way 
toward  the  rear  offices,  where  busy 
yance-men  worked  away  at  their 
desks  and  assembly  tables.  Activity 
whirred  on  all  sides.  The  expression 
on  the  faces  around  him  was  be- 
nign, harmless,  almost  bored.  The 
same  friendly,  trivial  expression 
that  Yancy  himself  displayed. 

Harmless — and  in  its  harmless- 
ness, diabolical.  And  there  wasn’t 
a damn  thing  he  could  do.  If  people 
liked  to  listen  to  John  Edward 
Yancy,  if  they  wanted  to  model 
themselves  after  him — what  could 
the  Niplan  police  do  about  it? 

What  crime  was  being  com- 
mitted? 

No  wonder  Babson  didn’t  care  if 
the  police  prowled  around.  No  won- 
der the  authorities  had  freely  ad- 
mitted them.  There  weren’t  any 
political  jails  or  labor  gangs  or  con- 
centratioh  camps  . . . there  didn’t 
have  to  be. 

Torture  chambers  and  extermin- 
ation camps  were  needed  only  when 
persuasion  failed.  And  persuasion 
was  working  perfectly.  A police 
state,  rule  by  terror,  came  about 
when  the  totalitarian  apparatus  be- 
gan to  break  down.  The  earlier  to- 
talitarian societies  had  been  incom- 
plete; the  authorities  hadn’t  really 
gotten  into  every  sphere  of  life.  But 

88 


techniques  of  conununication  had 
improved. 

The  first  really  successful  totali- 
tarian state  was  being  realized  be- 
fore his  eyes:  harmless  and  trivial, 
it  emerged.  And  the  last  stage — 
nightmarish,  but  perfectly  logical — 
was  when  all  the  newborn  boys 
were  happily  and  voluntarily  named 
John  Edward. 

Why  not?  They  already  lived, 
acted,  and  thought  like  John  Ed- 
ward. And  there  was  Mrs.  Mar- 
garet Ellen  Yancy,  for  the  women. 
She  had  her  full  range  of  opinions, 
too;  she  had  her  kitchen,  her  taste 
in  clothes,  her  little  recipes  and 
advice,  for  all  the  women  to  imi- 
tate. 

There  were  even  Yancy  children 
for  the  youth  of  the  planet  to  imi- 
tate. The  authorities  hadn’t  over- 
looked anything. 

Babson  strolled  over,  a genial  ex- 
pression on  his  face.  “How’s  it 
going,  officer?”  he  chuckled  wetly, 
putting  his  hand  on  Taverner’s 
shoulder. 

“Fine,”  Taverner  managed  to  an- 
swer; he  evaded  the  hand. 

“You  like  our  little  establish- 
ment?” There  was  genuine  pride 
in  Babson’s  thick  voice.  “We  do  a 
good  job.  An  artistic  job — ^we  have 
real  standards  of  excellence.” 

Shaking  with  helpless  anger, 
Taverner  plunged  out  of  the  office 
and  into  the  hall.  The  elevator  took 
too  long;  furiously,  he  turned  to^ 
ward  the  stairs.  He  had  to  get  out 
of  the  Yancy  Building;  he  had  to 
get  away. 

From  the  shadows  of  the  hall  a 
man  appeared,  face  pale  and  taut. 
“Wait.  Can — I talk  to  you?” 

PHILIP  K.  DICK 


Taverner  pushed  past  him. 
“What  do  you  want?” 

“You’re  from  the  Terran  Niplan 
Police?  I — ” The  man’s  Adam’s 
apple  bobbed.  “I  work  here.  My 
name’s  Sipling,  Leon  Sipling.  I 
have  to  do  something — I can’t 
stand  it  any  more.” 

“Nothing  can  be  done,”  Taver- 
ner told  him.  “If  they  want  to  be 
like  Yancy — ” 

“But  there  isn’t  any  Yancy,”  Sip- 
ling broke  in,  his  thin  face  twitch- 
ing spasmodically.  “We  made  him 
up  ...  we  invented  him.” 

Taverner  halted.  “You  what?^^ 
“I’ve  decided.”  Voice  quavering 
excitedly,  Sipling  rushed  on:  “I’m 
going  to  do  something — and  I know 
exactly  what.”  Catching  hold  of 
Taverner’s  sleeve  he  grated : 
“You’ve  got  to  help  me.  I can  stop 
all  this,  but  I can’t  do  it  alone.” 


IN  LEON  Sipling’s  attractive, 
well-furnished  living  room,  the 
two  of  them  sat  drinking  coffee 
and  watching  their  children  scram- 
ble around  on  the  floor,  playing 
games.  Sipling’s  wife  and  Ruth 
Taverner  were  in  the  kitchen,  dry- 
ing the  dishes. 

“Yancy  is  a synthesis,”  Sipling 
explained.  “A  sort  of  composite 
person.  No  such  individual  actually 
exists.  We  drew  on  basic  prototypes 
from  sociological  records;  we  based 
the  gestalt  on  various  typical  per- 
sons. So  it’s  true  to  life.  But  we 
stripped  off  what  we  didn’t  want 
and  intensified  what  we  did  want.” 
Broodingly,  he  added : “There 

could  be  a Yancy.  There  are  a lot 
of  Yancy-like  people.  In  fact,  that’s 

THE  MOLD  OF  YANCY 


the  problem.” 

“You  deliberately  set  out  with 
the  idea  of  remolding  people  along 
Yancy’s  line?”  Taverner  inquired. 

“I  can’t  precisely  say  what  the 
idea  is,  at  top  level.  I was  an  ad 
writer  for  a mouth  wash  company. 
The  Gallisto  authorities  hired  me 
and  outlined  what  they  wanted  me 
to  do.  I’ve  had  to  guess  as  to  the 
purpose  of  the  project.” 

“By  authorities,  you  mean  the 
governing  council?” 

Sipling  laughed  sharply.  “I  mean 
the  trading  syndicates  that  own  this 
moon:  lock,  stock,  and  barrel.  But 
we’re  not  supposed  to  call  it  a 
moon.  It’s  a planet.”  His  lips 
twitched  bitterly.  “Apparently,  the 
authorities  have  a big  program  built 
up.  It  involves  absorbing  their  trade 
rivals  on  Ganymede — when  that’s 
done,  they’ll  have  the  out-planets 
sewed  up  tight.” 

“They  can’t  get  at  Ganymede 
without  open  war,”  Taverner  pro- 
tested. “The  Medean  companies 
have  their  own  population  behind 
them.”  And  then  it  dawned.  “I 
see,”  he  said  softly.  “They’d  actually 
start  a war.  It  would  be  worth  a 
war,  to  them.” 

“You’re  damn  right  it  would. 
And  to  start  a war,  they  have  to  get 
the  public  lined  up.  Actually,  the 
people  here  have  nothing  to  gain. 
A war  would  wipe  out  all  the  small 
operators — it  would  concentrate 
power  in  fewer  hands — and  they’re 
few  enough  already.  To  get  the 
eighty  million  people  here  behind 
the  war,  they  need  an  indifferent, 
sheep-like  public.  And  the'/re  get- 
ting  that.  When  this  Yancy  cam- 
paign is  finished,  the  people  here 

89 


on  Gallisto  will  accept  anything. 
Yancy  does  all  their  thinking  for 
them.  He  tells  them  how  to  wear 
their  hair.  What  games  to  play.  He 
tells  the  jokes  the  men  repeat  in 
their  back  rooms.  His  wife  whips 
up  the  meal  they  all  have  for  din- 
ner. All  over  this  little  world — 
millions  of  duplicates  of  Yancy’s 
day.  Whatever  he  does,  whatever 
he  believes.  We’ve  been  condition- 
ing the  public  for  eleven  straight 
years.  The  important  thing  is  the 
unvarying  monotony  of  it.  A whole 
generation  is  growing  up  looking  to 
Yancy  for  an  answer  to  every- 
thing.” 

“It’s  a big  business,  then,” 
Taverner  observed.  “This  project 
of  creating  and  maintaining  Yan- 
cy.” 

“Thousands  of  people  are  in- 
volved in  just  writing  the  material. 
You  only  saw  the  first  stage — and 
it  goes  into  every  city.  Tapes,  films, 
books,  magazines,  posters,  pam- 
phlets, dramatic  visual  and  audio 
shows,  plants  in  the  newspapers, 
sound  trucks,  kids’  comic  strips, 
word-of-mouth  report,  elaborate 
ads  . . . the  works.  A steady  stream 
of  Yancy.”  Picking  up  a magazine 
from  the  coffee  table  he  indicated 
the  lead  article.  “ ‘How  is  John 
Yancy’s  Heart?’  Raises  the  question 
of  what  would  we  do  without  Yan- 
cy? Next  week,  an  article  on 
Yancy’s  stomach.”  Acidly,  Sipling 
finished:  “We  know  a million  ap- 
proaches. We  turn  it  out  of  every 
pore.  We’re  called  yance-men;  it’s 
a new  art-form.” 

“How  do  you — the  corps,  feel 
about  Yancy?” 

“He’s  a big  sack  of  hot  air.” 


“None  of  you  is  convinced?” 

“Even  Babson  has  to  laugh.  And 
Babson  is  at  the  top;  after  him 
come  the  boys  who  sign  the  checks. 
God,  if  we  ever  started  believing 
in  Yancy  ...  if  we  got  started 
thinking  that  trash  meant  some- 
thing— ” An  expression  of  acute 
agony  settled  over  Sipling’s  face. 
“That’s  it.  That’s  why  I can’t 
stand  it.” 

“Why?”  Taverner  asked,  deeply 
curious.  His  throat-mike  was  taking 
it  all  in,  relaying  it  back  to  the 
home  office  at  Washington.  “I’m 
interested  in  finding  out  why  you 
broke  away.” 

Sipling  bent  down  and  called  his 
son.  “Mike,  stop  playing  and  come 
on  over  here.”  To  Taverner  he  ex- 
plained: “Mike’s  nine  years  old. 
Yancy’s  been  around  as  long  as  he’s 
been  alive.” 

Mike  came  dutifully  over.  “Yes, 
sir?” 

“What  kind  of  marks  do  you  get 
in  school?”  his  father  asked. 

The  boy’s  chest  stuck  out  proud- 
ly; he  was  a clear-eyed  little  mini- 
ature of  Leon  Sipling.  “All  A’s  and 
B’s.” 

“He’s  a smart  kid,”  Sipling  said 
to  Taverner.  “Good  in  arithmetic, 
geography,  history,  all  that  stuff.” 
Turning  to  the  boy  he  said:  “I’m 
going  to  ask  you  some  questions; 
I want  this  gentleman  to  hear  your 
answers.  Okay?” 

“Yes,  sir,”  the  boy  said  obedient- 

His  thin  face  grim,  Sipling  said 
to  his  son:  “I  want  to  know  what 
you  think  about  war.  You’ve  been 
told  about  war  in  school ; you 
know  about  all  the  famous  wars  in 


90 


PHILIP  K.  DICK 


history.  Right?” 

“Yes,  sir.  We  learned  about  the 
American  Revolution,  and  the 
First  Global  War,  and  then  the 
Second  Global  War,  and  then  the 
First  Hydrogen  War,  and  the  War 
between  the  colonists  on  Mars  and 
Jupiter.” 

“To  the  schools,”  Sipling  ex- 
plained tightly  to  Taverner,  “we 
distribute  Yancy  material — educa- 
tional subsidies  in  packet  form. 
Yancy  takes  children  through  his- 
tory, explains  the  meaning  of  it 
all.  Yancy  explains  natural  science. 
Yancy  explains  good  posture  and 
astronomy  and  every  other  thing 
in  the  universe.  But  I never  thought 
my  own  son  ...”  His  voice  trailed 
off  unhappily,  then  picked  up  life. 
“So  you  know  all  about  war.  Okay, 
what  do  you  think  of  war?” 

Promptly,  the  boy  answered : 
“War  is  bad.  War  is  the  most 
terrible  thing  there  is.  It  almost 
destroyed  mankind.” 

Eying  his  son  intently,  Sipling 
demanded:  “Did  anybody  tell  you 
to  say  that?” 

The  boy  faltered  uncertainly. 
“No,  sir.” 

“You  really  believe  those 
things?” 

“Yes,  sir.  It’s  true,  isn’t  it?  Isn’t 
war  bad?” 

Sipling  nodded.  “War  is  bad. 
But  what  about  just  wars?” 

Without  hesitation  the  boy  an- 
swered: “We  have  to  fight  just 
wars,  of  course.” 

“Why?” 

“Well,  we  have  to  protect  our 
way  of  life.” 

“Why?” 

Again,  there  was  no  hesitation 
THE  MOLD  OF  YANCY 


in  the  boy’s  reedy  answer.  “We 
can’t  let  them  walk  over  us,  sir. 
That  would  encourage  aggressive 
war.  We  can’t  permit  a world  of 
brute  power.  We  have  to  have  a 
world  of — ” He  searched  for  the 
exact  word.  “A  world  of  law/^ 

Wearily,  half  to  himself,  Sipling 
commented:  “I  wrote  those  mean- 
ingless, contradictory  words  myself, 
eight  years  ago.”  Pulling  himself 
together  with  a violent  effort  he 
asked:  “So  war  is  bad.  But  we 
have  to  fight  just  wars.  Well,  may- 
be this — planet,  Callisto,  will  get 
into  a war  with  . . . let’s  pick  Gany- 
mede, at  random.”  He  was  unable 
to  keep  the  harsh  irony  from  his 
voice.  “Just  at  random.  Now,  we’re 
at  war  with  Ganymede.  Is  it  a just 
war?  Or  only  a war?” 

This  time,  there  was  no  answer. 
The  boy’s  smooth  face  was  screwed 
up  in  a bewildered,  struggling 
frown. 

“No  answer?”  Sipling  inquired 
icily. 

“Why,  uh,”  the  boy  faltered.  “I 
mean  . . .”  He  glanced  up  hope- 
fully. “When  the  time  comes  won’t 
somebody  say?” 

“Sure,”  Sipling  choked.  “Some- 
body will  say.  Maybe  even  Mr. 
Yancy.” 

Relief  flooded  the  boy’s  face. 
“Yes,  sir.  Mr.  Yancy  will  say.”  He 
retreated  back  toward  the  other 
children.  “Can  I go,  now?” 

As  the  boy  scampered  back  to 
his  game,  Sipling  turned  miserably 
to  Taverner.  “You  know  what 
game  they’re  playing?  It’s  called 
Hippo-Hoppo.  Guess  whose  grand- 
son just  loves  it.  Guess  who  in- 
vented the  game.” 


91 


There  was  silence. 

“What  do  you  suggest?”  Taver- 
ner asked.  “You  said  you  thought 
something  could  be  done.” 

A cold  expression  appeared  on 
Sipling’s  face,  a flash  of  deeply-felt 
cunning.  “I  know  the  project  . . . 
I know  how  it  can  be  pried  apart. 
But  somebody  has  to  stand  with  a 
gun  at  the  head  of  the  authorities. 
In  nine  years  I’ve  come  to  see  the 
essential  key  to  the  Yancy  char- 
acter . . . the  key  to  the  new  type 
of  person  we’re  growing,  here.  It’s 
simple.  It’s  the  element  that  makes 
that  person  malleable  enough  to  be 
led  around.” 

“I’ll  bite,”  Taverner  said  patient- 
ly, hoping  the  line  to  Washington 
was  good  and  clear. 

“All  Yancy’s  beliefs  are  insipid. 
The  key  is  thinness.  Every  part  of 
his  ideology  is  diluted : nothing  ex- 
cessive. We’ve  come  as  close  as 
possible  to  no  beliefs  . . . you’ve 
noticed  that.  Wherever  possible 
we’ve  cancelled  attitudes  out,  left 
the  person  a-political.  Without  a 
viewpoint.” 

“Sure,”  Taverner  agreed.  “But 
with  the  illusion  of  a viewpoint.” 
“All  aspects  of  personality  have 
to  be  controlled;  we  want  the  total 
person.  So  a specific  attitude  has  to 
exist  for  each  concrete  question.  In 
every  respect,  our  rule  is:  Yancy 
believes  the  least  troublesome  pos- 
sibility. The  most  shallow.  The 
simple,  effortless  view,  the  view 
that  fails  to  go  deep  enough  to  stir 
any  real  thought.” 

Taverner  got  the  drift.  “Good 
solid  lulling  views.”  Excitedly  he 
hurried  on,  “But  if  an  extreme, 
original  view  got  in,  one  that  took 

92 


real  effort  to  work  out,  something 
that  was  hard  to  live  . . .” 

“Yancy  plays  croquet.  So  every- 
body fools  around  with  a mallet.” 
Sipling’s  eyes  gleamed.  “But  sup- 
pose Yancy  had  a preference  for — 
Kriegspiel.” 

“For  what?'^ 

“Chess  played  on  two  boards. 
Each  player  has  his  own  board, 
with  a complete  set  of  men.  He 
never  sees  the  other  board.  A 
moderator  sees  both;  he  tells  each 
player  when  he’s  taken  a piece,  or 
lost  a piece,  or  moved  into  an  oc- 
cupied square,  or  made  an  im- 
possible move,  or  checked,  or  is  in 
check  himself.” 

“I  see,”  Taverner  said  quickly. 
“Each  player  tries  to  infer  his  op- 
ponent’s location  on  the  board.  He 
plays  blind.  Lord,  it  would  take 
every  mental  faculty  possible.” 
“The  Prussians  taught  their  of- 
ficers military  strategy  that  way. 
It’s  more  than  a game:  it’s  a cos- 
mic wrestling  match.  What  if 
Yancy  sat  down  in  the  evening  with 
his  wife  and  grandson,  and  played 
a nice  lively  six-hour  game  of 
Kriegspiel?  Suppose  his  favorite 
books — instead  of  being  western 
gun-toting  anachronisms — were 
Greek  tragedy?  Suppose  his  favor- 
ite piece  of  music  was  Bach’s  Art 
of  the  Fugue,  not  My  Old  Ken- 
tucky Home?^^ 

“I’m  beginning  to  get  the  pic- 
ture,” Taverner  said,  as  calmly  as 
possible.  “I  think  we  can  help.” 


BABSON  squeaked  once.  “But 
this  is — illegal!” 

“Absolutely,”  Taverner  acknowl- 
PHILIP  K.  DICK 


edged.  “That’s  why  we’re  here,” 
He  waved  the  squad  of  Niplan 
secret-servicemen  into  the  offices 
of  the  Yancy  Building,  ignoring  the 
stunned  workers  sitting  bolt-upright 
at  their  desks.  Into  his  throat-mike 
he  said,  “How’s  it  coming  with  the 
big-shots?” 

“Medium,”  Kellman’s  faint  voice 
came,  strengthened  by  the  relay 
system  between  Gallisto  and  Earth. 
“Some  slipped  out  of  bounds  to 
their  various  holdings,  of  course. 
But  the  majority  never  thought 
we’d  take  action.” 

“You  can’t!”  Babson  bleated,  his 
great  face  hanging  down  in  wattles 
of  white  dough.  “What  have  we 
done?  What  law — ” 

“I  think,”  Taverner  interrupted, 
“we  can  get  you  on  purely  com- 
mercial grounds  alone.  You’ve 
used  the  name  Yancy  to  endorse 
various  manufactured  products. 
There’s  no  such  person.  That’s  a 
violation  of  statutes  governing 
ethical  presentation  of  advertising.” 
Babson’s  mouth  closed  with  a 
snap,  then  slid  feebly  open.  “No — 
such — ^person?  But  everybody 
knows  John  Yancy.  Why,  he’s — ” 
Stammering,  gesturing,  he  finished, 
“He’s  everywhere.” 

Suddenly  a wretched  little  pistol 
appeared  in  his  pulpy  hand;  he 
was  waving  it  wildly  as  Dorser 
stepped  up  and  quietly  knocked  it 
skidding  across  the  floor.  Babson 
collapsed  into  fumbling  hysterics. 

Disgusted,  Dorser  clamped  hand- 
grapples  around  him.  “Act  like  a 
man,”  he  ordered.  But  there  was  no 
response;  Babson  was  too  far  gone 
to  hear  him. 

Satisfied,  Taverner  plunged  off, 
THE  MOLD  OF  YANCY 


past  the  knot  of  stunned  officials 
and  workers,  into  the  inner  offices 
of  the  project.  Nodding  curtly, 
Taverner  made  his  way  up  to  the 
desk  where  Leon  Sipling  sat  sur- 
rounded by  his  work. 

The  first  of  the  altered  gestalts 
was  already  flickering  through  the 
scanner.  Together,  the  two  men 
stood  watching  it. 

“Well?”  Taverner  said,  when  it 
was  done.  “You’re  the  judge.” 

“I  believe  it’ll  do,”  Sipling  an- 
swered nervously.  “I  hope  we  don’t 
stir  up  too  much  . . . it’s  taken 
eleven  years  to  build  it  up ; we 
want  to  tear  it  down  by  degrees.” 
“Once  the  first  crack  is  made,  it 
should  start  swaying.”  Taverner 
moved  toward  the  door.  “Will  you 
be  all  right  on  your  own?” 


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93 


Sipling  glanced  at  Eckmund  who 
lounged  at  the  end  of  the  office, 
eyes  fixed  on  the  uneasily  working 
yance-men.  “I  suppose  so.  Where 
are  you  going?” 

“I  want  to  watch  this  as  it’s  re- 
leased. I want  to  be  around  when 
the  public  gets  its  first  look  at  it.” 
At  the  door,  Taverner  lingered. 
“It’s  going  to  be  a big  job  for  you, 
putting  out  the  gestalt  on  your 
own.  You  may  not  get  much  help, 
for  awhile.” 

Sipling  indicated  his  co-workers; 
they  were  already  beginning  to 
pick  up  their  tempo  where  they 
had  left  off.  “They’ll  stay  on  the 
job,”  he  disagreed.  “As  long  as  they 
get  full  salaries.” 

Taverner  walked  thoughtfully 
across  the  hall  to  the  elevator.  A 
moment  later  he  was  on  his  way 
downstairs. 

At  a nearby  street  comer,  a 
group  of  people  had  collected 
around  a public  vid-screen.  Antici- 
pating the  late-afternoon  t-v  cast 
of  John  Edward  Yancy, 

The  gestalt  began  in  the  regular 
way.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
it : when  Sipling  wanted  to,  he 
could  put  together  a good  slice. 
And  in  this  case  he  had  done 
practically  the  whole  pie. 

In  rolled-up  shirt  sleeves  and 
dirt-stained  trousers,  Yancy 
crouched  in  his  garden,  a trowel 
in  one  hand,  straw  hat  pulled  down 
over  his  eyes,  grinning  into  the 
warm  glare  of  the  sun.  It  was  so 
real  that  Taverner  could  hardly  be- 
lieve no  such  person  existed.  But 
he  had  watched  Sipling’ s sub-crews 
laboriously  and  expertly  construct- 
ing the  thing  from  the  ground  up. 


“Afternoon,”  Yancy  rumbled 
genially.  He  wiped  perspiration 
from  his  steaming,  florid  face  and 
got  stiffly  to  his  feet.  “Man,”  he 
admitted,  “it’s  a hot  day.”  He  in- 
dicated a flat  of  primroses.  “I  was 
setting  them  out.  Quite  a job.” 

So  far  so  good.  The  crowd 
watched  impassively,  taking  their 
ideological  nourishment  without 
particular  resistance.  All  over  the 
moon,  in  every  house,  schoolroom, 
office,  on  each  street  corner,  the 
same  gestalt  was  showing.  And  it 
would  be  shown  again. 

“Yes,”  Yancy  repeated,  “it’s  real- 
ly hot.  Too  hot  for  those  primroses 
— they  like  the  shade.”  A fast  pan- 
up  showed  he  had  carefully  planted 
his  primroses  in  the  shadows  at 
the  base  of  his  garage.  “On  the 
other  hand,”  Yancy  continued,  in 
his  smooth,  good-natured,  over-the- 
back-fence  conversational  voice, 
“my  dahlias  need  lots  of  sun.” 

The  camera  leaped  to  show  the 
dahlias  blooming  frantically  in  the 
blazing  sunlight. 

Throwing  himself  down  in  a 
striped  lawnchair,  Yancy  removed 
his  straw  hat  and  wiped  his  brow 
with  a pocket  handkerchief.  “So,” 
he  continued  genially,  “if  anybody 
asked  me  which  is  better,  shade  or 
sun.  I’d  have  to  reply  it  depends 
on  whether  you’re  a primrose  or  a 
dahlia.”  He  grinned  his  famous 
guileless  boyish  grin  into  the  cam- 
eras. “I  guess  I must  be  a primrose 
— I’ve  had  all  the  sun  I can  stand 
for  today.” 

The  audience  was  taking  it  in 
without  complaint.  An  inauspicious 
beginning,  but  it  was  going  to  have 
long-term  consequences.  And  Yan- 


94 


PHILIP  K.  DICK 


cy  was  starting  to  develop  them 
right  now. 

His  genial  grin  faded.  That  fa- 
miliar look,  that  awaited  serious 
frown  showing  that  deep  thoughts 
were  coming,  faded  into  place. 
Yancy  was  going  to  hold  forth: 
wisdom  was  on  the  way.  But  it  was 
nothing  ever  uttered  by  him  be- 
fore. 

“You  know,”  Yancy  said  slowly, 
seriously,  “that  makes  a person  do 
some  thinking.”  Automatically,  he 
reached  for  his  glass  of  gin  and 
tonic — a glass  which  up  until  now 
would  have  contained  beer.  And 
the  magazine  beside  it  wasn’t  Dog 
Stories  Monthly;  it  was  The  Jour- 
nal of  Psychological  Review.  The 
alteration  of  peripheral  props 
would  sink  in  subliminally ; right 
now,  all  conscious  attention  was 
riveted  on  Yancy’s  words. 

“It  occurs  to  me,”  Yancy  orated, 
as  if  the  wisdom  were  fresh  and 
brand-new,  arriving  just  now,  “that 
some  people  might  maintain  that, 
say,  sunlight  is  good  and  shade  is 
bad.  But  that’s  downright  silly. 
Sunlight  is  good  for  roses  and 
dahlias,  but  it  would  darn  well 
finish  off  my  fuchsias.” 

The  camera  showed  his  ubiqui- 
tous prize  fuchsias. 

“Maybe  you  know  people  like 
that.  They  just  don’t  understand 
that — ” And  as  was  his  custom, 
Yancy  drew  on  folklore  to  make 
his  point.  “That  one  man’s  meat,” 
he  stated  profoundly,  “is  another 
man’s  poison.  Like,  for  instance, 
for  breakfast  I like  a couple  of  eggs 
done  sunny-side  up,  maybe  a few 
stewed  prunes,  and  a piece  of  toast. 
But  Margaret,  she  prefers  a bowl 

THE  MOLD  OF  YANCY 


of  cereal.  And  Ralf,  he  won’t  take 
either.  He  likes  flapjacks.  And  the 
fellow  down  the  street,  the  one 
with  the  big  front  lawn,  he  likes  a 
kidney  pie  and  a bottle  of  stout.” 

Taverner  winced.  Well,  they 
would  have  to  feel  their  way  along. 
But  still  the  audience  stood  ab- 
sorbing it,  word  after  word.  The 
first  feeble  stirrings  of  a radical 
idea:  that  each  person  had  a dif- 
ferent set  of  values,  a unique  style 
of  life.  That  each  person  might  be- 
lieve, enjoy,  and  approve  of  differ- 
ent things. 

It  would  take  time,  as  Sipling 
said.  The  massive  library  of  tapes 
would  have  to  be  replaced ; in- 
junctions built  up  in  each  area 
would  have  to  be  broken  down.  A 
new  type  of  thinking  was  being  in- 
troduced, starting  with  a trite  ob- 
servation about  primroses.  When  a 
nine-year-old  boy  wanted  to  find 
out  if  a war  was  just  or  unjust,  he 
would  have  to  inquire  into  his  own 
mind.  There  would  be  no  ready 
answer  from  Yancy;  a gestalt  was 
already  being  prepared  on  that, 
showing  that  every  war  had  been 
called  just  by  some,  unjust  by 
others. 

There  was  one  gestalt  Taverner 
wished  he  could  see.  But  it  wouldn’t 
be  around  for  a long  time;  it  would 
have  to  wait.  Yancy  was  going  to 
change  his  taste  in  art,  slowly  but 
steadily.  One  of  these  days,  the 
public  would  learn  that  Yancy  no 
longer  enjoyed  pastoral  calendar 
scenes. 

That  now  he  preferred  the  art  of 
that  fifteenth  century  Dutch  master 
of  macabre  and  diabolical  horror, 
Hieronymus  Bosch.  • • • 


95 


THE  PATRIOT 


Earth  was  through  with  war.  And  while  it  is  right 
that  man  have  peace,  it  is  also  right  that  he  have  free- 
dom. But  Mars  was  in  slavery,  and  to  Mars 
Cornel  Lorensse  dedicated  his  life  and  his  talent  . . . 


96 


Illustrated  by  Paul  Orban 


BY  CHARLES  L.  FONTENAY 


The  MARTIANNE  is  heard  afraid  of  war,  and  desired  to  put 
occasionally  these  days  as  a behind  it  all  reminders  of  war.  The 
stirring  concert  or  band  selection,  psychosociologists  said  uniforms  of 
But  there  was  a time  when  its  play-  policemen,  of  postmen,  of  airline 
ing  was  punishable  by  death — and  pilots,  of  lodge  brethren,  of  theater 
its  defiant  strains  challenged  the  ushers,  were  militaristic,  and  they 
harried  police  in  tavern  and  draw-  were  abolished.  The  psychosoci- 
ing  room  all  over  the  Earth.  ologists  said  the  march  rhythm  in 

In  the  days  just  before  one  music  was  nationalistic  and  insti- 
marche  militaire  changed  two  gated  combative  feelings,  and  it 
worlds.  Earth  was  weary  of  war,  was  banned.  The  scenes,  the 


97 


sounds,  the  sights  of  antagonisms 
between  men  were  forbidden. 

The  Polonaise,  the  Marseillaise, 
the  March  of  the  Toys,  all  suffered 
the  same  fate.  Sousa’s  marches  and 
Tschaikovsky’s  1812  Overture  went 
the  same  way.  Dixie  and  the 
Hawaiian  War  Chant  were  treated 
alike.  All  were  relegated  to  tape  in 
dusty  archives,  and  their  sale  or 
public  performance  forbidden  on 
pain  of  fine  and  prison  sentence. 

Whatever  unlawful  violence 
there  might  be  on  faraway  Mars, 
Earth  was  through  with  all  forms 
of  war  and  its  trappings. 

Into  these  circumstances.  Cornel 
Lorensse  intruded  on  the  night  of 
December  6,  2010.  He  pressed  his 
thin  face  against  the  steam-misted 
window  of  The  Avatar  in  Nuyork 
and  saw  a piano  standing  idle  in- 
side 

The  Avatar  was  one  of  those 
small  restaurants  sunk  a few  feet 
below  sidewalk  level,  which  catered 
with  exotic  dishes  to  the  tastes  of 
a select  group.  It  was  well-popu- 
lated at  this  hour,  and  Cornel 
licked  his  lips  hungrily  at  the 
epicurean  delights  unveiled  at  each 
table. 

He  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  worn 
coveralls.  A single  coin  answered 
the  exploration  of  his  fingers.  He 
was  down  to  his  last  resource,  and 
he  was  no  nearer  to  finding  the 
Friends  than  he  had  been  when  he 
landed. 

He  looked  again  at  the  piano, 
hesitated,  then  went  down  the  three 
steps  to  the  restaurant’s  door, 
pushed  it  open  and  went  in.  It  was 
his  good  fortune  that  Wan  Ti,  own- 
er of  The  Avatar  was  receiving  his 


guests  in  person  at  the  moment. 

“I’ll  play  you  a concert  for  a 
meal,”  said  Cornel,  gesturing  to- 
ward the  piano. 

Wan  Ti’s  dark  eyes  swept  over 
him,  taking  in  the  battered  cover- 
alls, the  earnest  face,  the  un- 
trimmed blond  hair,  the  slender 
hands.  Wan  Ti’s  yellow  counten- 
ance remained  bland. 

“I  have  a piano  player,”  said 
Wan  Ti. 

Cornel  laughed,  with  a note  of 
desperation  in  his  tone. 

“Let  me  play  one  selection,”  he 
urged.  “If  you  want  to  stop  me 
then,  you  can  kick  me  out.” 

What  Wan  Ti  thought  could  not 
be  gauged  from  his  expression, 
but  he  had  not  built  his  clientele 
against  fierce  competition  by  turn- 
ing his  face  away  from  the  un- 
usual. He  inclined  his  head  slight- 
ly, and  waved  Cornel  to  the  piano. 

Cornel  sat  down  at  the  keyboard, 
brushed  his  hair  back  from  his 
eyes,  and  flexed  his  long  fingers. 
Thrusting  the  tantalizing  aroma  of 
food  to  the  back  of  his  mind,  he 
played. 

The  murmur  of  conversation  in 
The  Avatar  faltered  and  died  as 
the  fervid  melody  of  Beethoven’s 
Sonata  Appassionata  filled  the  air. 
It  was  unusual  music  to  people  ac- 
customed to  hearing  the  more 
modern  compositions  of  Schonberg, 
Harris  and  Westine.  The  compari- 
son of  Cornel’s  inspired  touch  to 
the  mechanical  renditions  of  Wan 
Ti’s  regular  piano  player  was  no- 
ticeable even  to  those  who  were 
unfamiliar  with  music. 

When  the  final  movements  of  the 
allegro  ma  non  troppo  faded,  Cor- 


98 


CHARLES  L.  FONTENAY 


nel  sat  back  and  looked  toward 
Wan  Ti.  The  proprietor  cocked 
an  ear  toward  the  rare  applause, 
smiled  and  nodded  slightly.  Exul- 
tantly, Cornel  swung  into  Chopin’s 
fantasie-Impromptu  and  followed 
it,  not  pausing,  with  Liszt’s  Wal- 
desrauschen  and  Schubert’s  Seren- 
ode. 

The  applause  was  just  as  en- 
thusiastic, but  by  now  the  hum  of 
voices  and  the  click  of  eating 
utensils  had  begun  to  rise  again. 
Frowning  slightly.  Cornel  hunched 
his  shoulders  and  began  a com- 
position the  most  musical  of  his 
audience  had  never  heard  before. 

Like  the  molten  notes  of  the 
nightingale,  the  music  floated  and 
throbbed  above  the  diners,  almost 
a physical  thing.  The  people  in 
the  restaurant  paused  with  food 
halfway  to  their  lips.  They  turned 
to  see  the  artist,  carefully,  so  that 
no  chair  would  scrape.  The  waiters 
stopped  with  trays  in  their  hands. 
Wan  Ti  stopped  a newly  arriving 
couple,  his  fingers  at  his  lips. 

In  the  midst  of  the  applause  that 
roared  through  the  room  when 
Cornel  had  finished,  a waiter 
tapped  his  shoulder. 

“Excuse  me,  sir,”  he  said.  “Miss 
Meta  Erosine  asks  that  you  join 
her  at  her  table.” 

Rising  and  bowing  to  his  audi- 
ence, Cornel  followed  the  man  to 
a table  at  the  rear  of  the  room, 
where  a woman  sat  with  her  escort. 

Meta  Erosine’s  pale,  heart- 
shaped  face,  with  its  mop  of  short 
black  hair  and  luminous  black 
eyes,  was  widely  known  on  Earth, 
but  Cornel  had  never  been  to  Earth 
before.  Her  vibrant  beauty  blazed 

the  patriot 


on  a victim  unprepared  for  it. 

She  was  clad  in  the  cretan-can- 
can  style  just  then  becoming  popu- 
lar, with  breasts  exposed  over  a 
tight  bodice  and  a short,  ruffled 
skirt  gathered  in  front  to  reveal 
the  knees.  She  smoked  a long- 
stemmed, tiny-bowled  pipe,  studded 
with  jewels. 

Beside  her  sat  a sleek,  mustached 
young  man  in  ruffled  lavender 
shirt  and  pink  tights,  his  fingers 
covered  with  rings. 

“Sit  down  and  eat  with  me, 
musician,”  invited  Meta.  Some- 
what dubiously,  Cornel  took  a seat 
at  her  right,  across  the  table  from 
the  beruffled  escort. 

“Meta,  I wish  you  wouldn’t 
demean  yourself  by  taking  up  with 
tramps  and  guttersnipes,”  objected 
her  companion,  wrinkling  his  nose. 

“Leave  me,  Passo,”  she  ordered, 
waving  an  imperious  hand.  “Why 
should  I sup  with  painted  popin- 
jays when  I can  adore  genius?” 
Passo  flushed  and  his  mouth  fell 
open.  But  he  arose  and  slunk  quiet- 
ly away. 

“Now,  musician,”  said  Meta, 
leaning  over  the  table  so  that  her 
powdered  breasts  brushed  the 
glassware,  “tell  me,  what  was  that 
last  number  you  played?” 

“One  of  my  own  compositions,” 
he  said  diffidently.  The  odor  of 
food  was  too  much  for  him,  and 
he  leaned  across  the  table  to  ap- 
propriate Passo’s  untouched  salad. 
“Its  name  is  Wind  in  the  Canals'" 
“It  should  be  Le  Vent  dans  les 
Canals,"  she  said.  “You  should 
title  your  compositions  in  French 
— they  will  be  more  fashionable.” 
“I  don’t  know  French,”  he  said. 


99 


munching  a stick  of  celery.  “We 
don’t  speak  French  on  Mars.” 

She  laughed,  a laugh  like  the 
music  of  his  playing. 

“You  will,  my  genius,”  she  prom- 
ised him.  Her  eyes  ran  over  his 
lean  face,  his  unkempt  hair.  “You 
look  as  though  you  could  use  shel- 
ter and  clothing.  Come  home  with 
me  tonight.  I shall  give  your  genius 
to  the  world.” 


CORNEL  never  had  experienced 
such  luxury  as  was  his  in  the 
apartment  Meta  assigned  to  him  in 
her  magnificent  home  in  Jersi.  He 
had  his  personal  servant.  New 
clothes  were  waiting  for  him.  A 
barber  cut  his  hair  when  he  had 
finished  a hot,  scented  bath,  and 
the  big  bed  in  which  he  slept  was 
soft  as  down. 

Meta  asked  no  information  of 
him  until  they  met  at  a late  break- 
fast the  next  morning.  There,  beau- 
tiful in  translucent  white  negligee, 
she  sipped  her  coffee  and  asked 
questions. 

“I  came  from  Mars  to  get  help 
for  my  people,”  he  said.  “We  need 
guns  and  supplies,  food  and  oxygen 
equipment.” 

“You’re  one  of  the  Gharax 
rebels?”  she  asked. 

“Rebels?”  He  snorted.  “We’re 
free  people,  fighting  for  our  free- 
dom. We  want  self-government, 
we  want  to  own  our  land  and  our 
homes,  we  want  the  right  to  rule 
our  own  lives.” 

“That’s  guaranteed  in  the  Con- 
stitution,” said  Meta. 

“Earth’s  Constitution.  Mars  isn’t 
Earth.  The  Mars  Corporation  con- 

100 


trols  botn  spaceports.  It  owns  all 
business  and  industry  on  Mars.  It’s 
milking  the  planet  dry  of  resources 
and  profits,  and  it’s  set  up  a com- 
pany government  that  makes  the 
people  of  Mars  no  better  than 
slaves.” 

He  smiled  a bitter  smile. 

“Earth’s  government  protects  the 
freedom  of  Earth’s  people,”  he 
said,  “but  the  people  of  Earth 
don’t  know  what’s  happening  on 
Mars.  The  Mars  Corporation  has 
its  senators  and  representatives, 
bought  and  paid  for,  so  the  Earth 
government  sends  troops  and  sup- 
plies to  Mars  to  fight  the  battles  of 
the  Mars  Corporation.  We  aren’t 
rebels,  we’re  fighting  for  our  just 
freedom.” 

“If  the  Mars  Corporation  con- 
trols the  spaceports,  how  did  you 
get  to  Earth?”  she  demanded. 

“We  have  three  battered  ships 
hidden  in  the  desert  near  Syrtis 
Major,”  said  Gomel.  “It  takes  a 
long  time  for  us  to  get  fuel  to  take 
one  of  them  up,  but  they  thought 
it  worthwhile  if  I could  get  to 
Earth  and  get  help  for  my  people.” 

“Why  you?” 

“My  music  is  well  known  on 
Mars,  and  my  people  know  that 
the  people  of  Earth  love  music. 
Here  on  Earth,  where  there  is 
peace  and  prosperity,  people  pay 
to  hear  good  music  and  good  mu- 
sicians. Our  plan  was  for  me  to 
give  great  concerts  and  at  each 
concert  ask  the  people  of  Earth  to 
help  their  Martian  brothers  gain 
their  freedom.” 

“A  good  way  to  get  arrested,” 
said  Meta  dryly.  “You’d  be  con- 
victed of  inciting  military  action 

CHARLES  L.  FONTENAY 


and  sentenced  to  prison  in  any 
court  of  Earth.” 

“I  didn’t  know  that,  but  I sup- 
pose the  Friends  would  have  a 
way. 

“The  Friends?” 

“The  Friends  of  Mars.  It’s  an 
organization  of  Earth  people  try- 
ing to  help  us.  I suppose  it  must 
be  a secret  and  illegal  organization, 
for  I found  that  the  man  I was 
supposed  to  get  in  touch  with  had 
been  arrested,  and  I haven’t  been 
able  to  find  out  anything  more 
about  the  Friends.” 

“Such  an  organization  would  be 
illegal  on  Earth,”  said  Meta. 
“Come  here,  Gomel.  I want  to 
show  you  something.” 

Taking  him  by  the  arm,  she  led 
him  from  the  breakfast  room  to  a 
terrace  overlooking  a snowy  valley. 
She  moved  closer  to  him  in  the 
chill  wind  that  billowed  her  thin 
garments  around  her,  and  waved 
her  hand  at  the  scene  below  them. 

“This  is  Earth,”  she  said.  “Look 
at  those  mountain  peaks,  the  blue 
sky  and  the  white  clouds.  In  sum- 
mer, this  valley  is  clothed  with 
green,  and  warm  breezes  bring  the 
scent  of  flowers  to  this  terrace. 
Have  you  ever  seen  anything  like 
this  on  Mars?” 

“No,”  he  said  softly.  “Mars  is 
always  cold  and  dusty,  and  the  sky 
is  nearly  black.” 

“Cornel,”  she  said  softly,  you’re 
a great  musician.  Mars  is  rough 
frontier  territory,  and  the  frontier 
has  no  place  for  music.  Last  night 
you  saw  what  your  music  could 
mean  here. 

“Forget  Mars.  You  belong  to 
Earth.” 


The  METEORIC  rise  of  Cornel 
Lorensse  to  fame  in  201 1 and 
2012  now  commands  a full  column 
in  the  Encyclopaedia  Terrestriana. 
Bmshed  off  in  a single  sentence  in 
the  encyclopaedia,  but  much  dis- 
cussed in  that  day,  was  his  close 
relationship  with  Meta  Erosine,  his 
patroness. 

For  half  a decade,  wealthy,  beau- 
tiful Meta  Erosine  had  been  the 
toast  of  Earth.  She  was  an  actress, 
a painter,  a singer,  a socialite,  and 
she  had  changed  men  almost  as 
often  as  she  changed  the  dresses  she 
wore.  Her  face  was  familiar  in 
newspapers  and  on  television 
screens,  her  husky  songs  were  on  a 
million  recording  tapes,  her  color- 
ful antics  were  the  grist  for  maga- 
zine articles  and  the  subject  of 
denunciations  from  the  pulpit. 

In  Cornel  she  seemed  to  have 
found  a vehicle  for  all  the  burning 
fire  of  her  energy.  She  pushed  him, 
she  groomed  him,  she  threw  the 
power  of  her  wealth  behind  him. 
His  slender  figure  clad  in  a black 
velvet  suit  sat  at  polished  pianos 
on  a hundred  stages;  and  for  each 
concert,  the  auditoriums  and  the 
audiences  were  bigger. 

Meta  was  with  him  on  these 
concert  tours;  and  between  tours 
he  stayed  in  seclusion  at  the  big 
house  in  Jersi,  putting  into  music 
his  memories  of  his  native  Mars. 
Each  tour  introduced  to  the  world 
the  new  compositions  of  Gomel 
Lorensse. 

What  he  wrote  and  played  was 
the  haunting  music  of  the  deserts, 
the  canals  and  the  marches.  Into 
his  music  he  poured  the  loneliness 
of  the  red  sands  and  the  violence  of 


THE  PATRIOT 


101 


the  desert  winds,  the  beauty  of 
sable  skies  jeweled  with  enormous 
stars,  the  happiness  of  the  helmeted 
traveler  when  he  reaches  the  green 
valleys  of  the  canals,  the  hopes  and 
joys  of  human  lovers  gathered  in 
bubble-like  domes  amid  the  chill 
wastelands. 

He  did  not,  as  Meta  had  wanted 
to,  give  his  compositions  French 
titles.  He  named  them  as  he  would 
have  named  them  on  Mars:  The 
Desert  Wanderer,  Swift  Phobos, 
Marsh  Gardens,  names  that  were 
strange  to  Earth,  but  were  familiar 
themes  of  his  own  people. 

His  melodies  took  music-loving 
Earth  by  storm.  They  burst  upon  a 
world  in  which  20th  century  dis- 
sonance had  strangled  19th  century 
romanticism,  like  flowers  in  a gar- 
den of  crystal.  It  was  Cornel 
Lorensse  and  those  pioneer  com- 
posers who  avidly  aped  him  who 
began  the  21st  century  Renaissance 
in  music. 

Without  shame.  Cornel  lived  on 
the  largesse  of  his  patroness,  for 
his  growing  fees  and  royalties  all 
went  for  one  purpose.  He  had 
found  the  society  called  the  Friends 
of  Mars,  and  everything  that  he 
earned  he  poured  into  their  coffers 
to  finance  privateer  space  vessels 
able  to  elude  the  Mars  Corpora- 
tion’s company-owned  warships 
and  to  keep  a thin  line  of  supplies 
flowing  to  the  Free  Martian  people 
scattered  in  their  desert  strong- 
holds. 

Like  any  secret  society  in  a hos- 
tile culture,  the  Friends  of  Mars 
maintained  dissociated  chapters, 
connected  by  the  slenderest  and 
most  carefully  guarded  lines  of 

102 


communication.  Cornel  knew  of 
only  one  chapter,  in  Nuyork,  and 
to  this  he  took  his  contributions 
when  he  was  between  concert  tours. 

During  one  of  those  visits,  late 
in  the  summer  of  2012,  Javan 
Tomlin,  chief  of  the  chapter,  told 
him  that  all  he  contributed  was 
still  not  enough  for  Mars  to  be- 
come free. 

“Our  base  of  support  isn’t  broad 
enough,”  said  Javan.  “Ships  cost 
money,  fuel  costs  money,  supplies 
cost  money.  Guns  and  ammunition 
are  most  expensive  of  all,  because 
military  weapons  are  illegal.  No 
one  man  can  support  such  an 
operation,  even  when  he  makes  the 
kind  of  money  you’re  making.” 
There  were  half  a dozen  of  the 
Friends  of  Mars,  besides  Cornel 
and  Javan,  in  the  meeting  room. 
The  others  nodded  agreement  at 
Javan’s  words. 

“None  of  us  are  wealthy  and  we 
can’t  contribute  much  but  our  time 
and  work,”  said  one  of  them.  “The 
wealthy  people  all  sympathize  with 
the  Mars  Corporation.” 

“That’s  too  much  of  a blanket 
indictment,”  said  Javan.  “The 
Mars  Corporation  controls  the 
spacelines  to  Mars,  and  what  little 
information  comes  back  to  Earth  is 
censored  and  heavily  propagan- 
dized in  their  favor.  Most  people 
don’t  know  what’s  happening  on 
Mars.  Our  people  need  a powerful 
radio  transmitter  to  broadcast  to 
Earth,  Cornel.” 

Cornel  shook  his  head. 

“What  information  the  people 
of  Earth  get  must  be  disseminated 
on  Earth,”  he  said.  “Powerful  ra- 
dio equipment  would  take  up  space 

CHARLES  L.  FONTENAY 


and  weight  needed  for  arms.  Be- 
sides, the  Mars  Corporation  forces 
have  air  power  and  directional 
finders.  They’d  bomb  a permanent 
installation  before  it  had  a chance 
to  send  out  its  second  broadcast.” 

“All  we  can  do  is  work  and 
hope,”  said  Javan  gloomily.  “If  we 
had  a fleet  of  about  a dozen  good 
ships,  we  might  be  able  to  swing 
it,  but  we  have  only  two  and  a 
third  abuilding.” 

“There  are  three  on  Mars,”  Cor- 
nel pointed  out. 

“One  was  blasted  in  space  last 
week,  and  they’re  too  old  to  lift 
more  than  half  cargo,  anyhow,” 
said  Javan.  “The  corporation  con- 
trols the  Earth  space  stations, 
through  the  government,  and  we 
have  to  use  direct  drive  stage- 
rockets.” 

Cornel  left,  not  feeling  very  op- 
timistic. At  the  curb  outside  the 
club,  he  looked  up  and  down  the 
street  for  a cab  to  take  him  to  the 
heliport  where  his  copter  was 
parked. 

There  was  no  cab  in  sight,  but 
from  a side  street  a little  distance 
away  a long  black  limousine  swung 
into  the  boulevard,  sped  swiftly  to 
the  club  entrance  and  halted.  The 
back  door  opened  and  Meta  leaned 
out,  beckoning. 

“Get  in,  quick!”  she  urged. 
“We’ve  got  to  get  away  from  here!” 

Not  understanding,  Cornel  got 
in.  The  car  roared  away  with  a 
burst  of  acceleration  that  thrust 
him  back  on  the  cushions  beside 
her. 

“What  in  Saturn?”  he  de- 
manded and  turned  to  look  out  the 
rear  window. 


A squad  of  police  cars  was  con- 
verging on  the  club  he  had  just 
left.  Sirens  screaming,  they  pulled 
up,  blocking  the  street,  and  armed 
officers  in  plain  clothes  leaped  out 
and  hurried  into  the  club. 

Meta  put  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  drew  his  head  down  to 
her  lap. 

“They’re  raiding  the  Friends  of 
Mars,”  she  said,  and  a soothing 
note  crept  into  her  tone.  “You’re 
safe,  darling.  They  don’t  know  you 
were  there.” 

“But  how  did  they  know?  How 
did  you  know?”  he  demanded, 
struggling  unsuccessfully  to  free 
himself  from  the  imprisonment  of 
her  embrace.  The  sound  of  the 
sirens  had  died  in  the  distance  be- 
hind them. 

“I  told  them,”  Meta  said  firmly. 
“Where  do  you  think  I get  the 
wealth  you’ve  been  living  on,  dar- 
ling? I own  a fourth  of  the  stock 
of  the  Mars  Corporation.” 


The  next  morning.  Cornel 
had  disappeared.  Meta  was 
frantic.  Every  available  agency  was 
pressed  into  service,  but  Nuyork 
was  a city  of  fifteen  million  people 
and  Cornel  had  vanished. 

It  was  two  weeks  before  he  re- 
turned. When  he  did,  he  was  gaunt 
and  grim  and  dirty  as  he  had  been 
the  night  Meta  had  first  seen  him 
in  The  Avatar. 

“Darling,  why  did  you  run 
away?”  she  asked,  holding  him 
close  in  her  arms. 

“I  came  back  because  I love 
you,”  he  answered  tiredly.  “But  I 
came  back,  too,  because  I love 


THE  PATRIOT 


103 


Mars  more,  Meta.  I had  to  go 
away  and  think  what  I was  to  do.” 

“It’s  all  right  now,”  she  soothed. 
“You  understand  that  the  odds 
against  your  rebels  are  just  too 
heavy.  You  have  a life  on  Earth  to 
live.” 

“Yes,”  he  said  in  a low  voice. 
“But  there’ll  be  no  concerts  this 
season,  Meta.” 

“Cornel,  you  can’t  cancel  now! 
The  schedule’s  all  arranged.” 

“I  shall  cancel,”  he  said  firmly. 
“You  want  me  to  live  on  Earth, 
so  you  must  let  me  learn  about 
Earth.  I intend  to  spend  this  win- 
ter studying  psychosociology  and 
terrestrial  law — and  composing.” 

Her  brow  cleared. 

“If  you’ll  continue  your  com- 
posing, it’s  all  right,”  she  said. 
“Next  season’s  concerts  can  be  the 
greatest  ever.  I’ll  pay  off  the  pro- 
moters, darling.” 

So  it  was  done.  That  season  the 
admirers  of  Cornel  Lorensse’s 
music  had  to  content  themselves 
with  recordings.  Cornel  himself 
spent  his  time  quietly  at  Nuyork 
University  and  at  the  house  in 
Jersi. 

As  she  had  said,  the  2013  concert 
season  was  Cornel’s  greatest,  right 
from  the  start.  In  part  it  was  due 
to  Meta’s  own  efforts,  for  she  spent 
tremendous  sums  of  money  and 
utilized  her  own  famous  personality 
to  great  advantage  in  promotional 
work. 

Across  the  nation,  across  the 
the  world,  the  tour  swept,  snow- 
balling constantly.  Christmas  of 
2013,  and  Cornel  Lorensse  intro- 
duced a great  new  hymn.  From  the 
Polar  Caps,  New  Year’s  Day,  2014, 


and  The  Years  to  Come  was  intro- 
duced by  radio  and  television  at  a 
thousand  parties. 

There  had  been  some  quibbling 
at  the  beginning  of  the  season,  be- 
cause the  business  directors  of  the 
tour  had  wanted  to  combine  the 
drawing  power  of  Cornel’s  name 
with  that  of  well-known  concert 
orchestras.  Cornel  insisted  on 
using  his  own  orchestra,  built  up 
carefully  during  his  year  of  study. 
As  the  season  progressed,  it  be- 
came apparent  that  Cornel’s  name 
alone  was  enough  of  a drawing 
card. 

February,  March,  2014,  and 
every  network  had  bought  into 
the  schedule.  When  Cornel  Lor- 
ensse’s weekly  concerts  were  on  the 
air,  there  was  nothing  else  on  radio 
or  television,  anywhere  in  the 
world,  except  on  the  non-affiliated 
local  stations.  April  passed  trium- 
phantly, and  the  final  concert  was 
scheduled  for  May  15  in  Rome. 

The  D’Annunzio  Colosseum,  built 
in  1971,  was  filled  to  capacity. 
Careful  staging  was  necessary,  to 
care  for  all  the  cameras  and  micro- 
phones of  the  various  television 
and  radio  networks. 

The  program  was  not  a long 
one:  Debussy’s  Clair  de  Lune, 

Lorensse’s  Swift  Phohos,  Beeth- 
oven’s Moonlight  Sonata,  Waco’s 
Variations  on  a Theme  by  Altdown 
— and  the  words  “To  be  an- 
nounced.” It  was  a familiar  phrase, 
and  it  always  meant  the  introduc- 
tion of  a new  composition  by  Cor- 
nel Lorensse. 

The  concert  went  smoothly  be- 
fore— how  many  listeners?  Fifty 
million?  A hundred  million?  Two 


104 


CHARLES  L.  FONTENAY 


hundred  million?  On  the  great, 
brightly  lighted  stage  Cornel  played 
the  concert  grand  with  superb 
mastery  and  bowed  to  the  applause, 
a pale,  solemn  figure  in  black. 

When  he  had  acknowledged  the 
acclamation  after  the  Waco  piece, 
the  audience  waited  in  hushed  si- 
lence for  his  announcement  of  the 
final  number  on  the  program. 

“The  composition  I am  about  to 
play  is  the  culmination  of  my 
musical  career,”  Cornel  said  quietly 
into  the  microphones.  “It  is  a prod- 
uct of  my  studies,  not  only  of 
music,  but  of  psychosociology  and 
law. 

“In  hypnoschool  last  year,  I 
studied  the  effects  of  music  on  the 
human  mind.  It  is  a new  field,  and 
many  of  you  are  aware  of  it  only 
through  the  fact  that  certain  kinds 
of  music  are  forbidden  by  law  as 
dangerous  to  peace  on  Earth. 

“I  have  tried  to  go  into  it  much 
more  deeply  than  that.” 

He  smiled  bitterly. 

“Most  of  you  know  that  I am  a 
Martian,  one  of  the  so-called  Mar- 
tian rebels,”  he  said.  “I  think  much 
of  the  appeal  of  my  music  to  you 
has  been  its  Martian  quality.  To 
the  people  of  Earth,  most  of  whom 
have  never  seen  Mars,  it  has  pic- 
tured my  planet. 

“My  latest  composition  will  do 
so  even  more  graphically,  for  it  has 
been  composed  on  a deliberate  psy- 
chological foundation.  This  song 
will  show  Mars  to  you.  It  will  show 
you  my  people,  and  what  my  people 
want. 

“I  may  add  that  I have  studied 
the  law  carefully,  and  I can  assure 
you  that  this  composition  is  not 

THE  PATRIOT 


military  in  nature. 

“Ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Earth, 
accompanied  by  the  orchestra  I 
shall  now  play  The  Martianne,^^ 

In  the  control  rooms  of  the  au- 
ditorium and  of  relay  points 
throughout  the  world,  censors, 
vaguely  alarmed  by  Comers  words, 
hovered  with  their  fingers  on  cut- 
off keys.  Then  they  relaxed.  Cornel 
had  told  the  truth.  There  was  noth- 
ing of  a military  nature  in  the 
opening  bars  of  The  Martianne. 

It  was  a theme  handled,  but  less 
competently,  in  some  of  his  other 
compositions.  The  woodwinds  be- 
gan on  a soft,  sad  note,  gradually 
rising  in  power,  like  the  thin  winds 
that  moaned  across  the  Martian 
desert  sands.  Into  this,  almost  in- 
audibly  at  first,  crept  the  clear 
piano  notes  that  marked  the  cau- 
tious, wondering  intrusion  of  hu- 
manity on  an  alien  world. 

The  drums  beat  the  construction 
of  the  domes,  the  horns  blared  the 
landing  of  the  spaceships,  the  vio- 
lins cried  the  hopes  of  the  men 
and  women  who  went  to  Mars  to 
find  a new  life.  It  was  a picture  in 
music,  so  skilfully  drawn  that  when 
the  first  discordance  crept  in,  every 
listener  could  identify  it  instantly 
as  the  age-old  greed  of  man  seek- 
ing to  subvert  frontier  freedoms 
to  his  own  selfish  ends. 

When  the  blare  of  trumpets  and 
the  ruffle  of  drums  thundered  into 
the  final  militant  theme  of  The 
Martianne,  every  listener  knew  it 
bespoke  the  valiant  fight  of  men 
for  freedom  against  an  oppressor. 

Every  listener  knew  what  he 
heard  was  music  that  had  been 
(Continued  on  page  120) 


105 


BY  VARLEY  LANG 

Mans  every  resource  was  being  stripped  to 
feed  the  millions  on  Earth  . . . but  George  was 
a throwback,  and  a poacher,  and  his  punish- 


ment had  to  fit  the  crime  . . . 


THERE’S  a library  in  a small  but  it  made  me  hard  to  live  with; 

town  near  Charles  Neck  on  and  since  I live  mostly  with  myself, 
Murdock  Sound.  It’s  so  run  down  I had  to  quit.  Still,  I knew  I 
and  useless  that  a lot  of  old  books  couldn’t  get  away  with  backward- 
still  hang  around  on  the  shelves,  the  ness,  and  that  sooner  or  later  the 
big  kind  with  stiff  backs  and  all  WFI  would  slap  me  down,  squash 
kinds  of  fancy  little  stars  or  small,  this  bussing  insect,  and  get  on  with 
curly  designs  to  show  the  end  of  one  its  work  again  as  usual, 
section  and  the  beginning  of  an- 
other. Very  quaint.  After  the  WFI  Sure  enough,  one  bleak  Novem- 


Illustrated  by  Paul  Orhan 


took  over  the  Sound  in  our  remote  ber  morning,  when  I was  half 
area,  I didn’t  have  much  to  do  in  through  a couple  of  eggs  and  a cup 
the  day  time,  so  I used  to  walk  of  coffee,  I heard  the  throb  of  a 
down  the  road  to  town  and  get  a motor.  I walked  down  to  the  end 
handful  of  these  stiff  backs  once  in  of  my  wharf  and  looked  skyward.  I 
a while.  From  reading  them  I got  was  pretty  sure  they  wouldn’t  come 
the  notion  I’m  a one  man  resist-  by  land,  because  most  of  the  sec- 
ance  movement,  which  is  pitiful  ondary  roads  were  in  bad  shape; 
and  foolish,  and,  I gather,  always  and  they  wouldn’t  travel  by  water, 
has  been  a seedy,  run-down  sort  of  because  that  took  too  much  gas  and 
thing,  a backward  state  of  mind  time.  In  fact,  the  WFI  never  wasted 
and  feelings.  That’s  me,  alright:  anything.  They  couldn’t  afford  to. 

backward.  I tried  to  be  forward.  Everything  went  for  food,  its 


107 


growth,  collection,  and  processing. 
The  big  freighters,  some  of  them, 
had  atomic  piles,  but  that  power 
was  impossibly  clumsy  and  expen- 
sive for  smaller  boats.  So  they  came 
by  air  in  the  usual  inspection  heli- 
copter. The  pilot  dropped  her  in 
the  cove  right  alongside  the  wharf 
and  made  fast.  Three  men  stepped 
onto  the  planks.  They  had  the 
wheat  sheaf  insignia  of  the  WFI  on 
their  overcoat  arms  and  caps,  and 
they  looked  cold  and  bored.  A small 
sea  sucked  at  the  pilings  and  the 
helicopter  rose  and  fell,  grating 
against  the  wharf.  I looked  at  the 
pilot  and  said,  “Better  put  your 
chafing  gear  out  if  you  intend  stay- 
ing a while.”  We  all  watched  while 
the  pilot  put  a few  kapoks  at  the 
tight  spots.  Then  he  looked  at  a 
notebook  and  said,  “You  George 
Arthur  Henry?” 

I said,  “Gall  me  George.” 

This  inspector  was  the  usual 
type:  tired  from  long  hours,  bored 
from  doing  nothing  on  a weary 
round  of  food  inspections.  He 
hunched  his  shoulders  against  the 
wind. 

I said,  “It’s  warmer  inside.” 

They  followed  me  into  the  kitch- 
en of  the  house.  All  three  of  them 
started  to  sit  down,  then  stopped, 
and  walked  over  to  the  table  in 
perfect  step.  They  looked  at  the 
cold  remains  of  my  breakfast  eggs. 
The  WFI  inspector  shoved  his  hat 
up  and  said,  “Eggs.”  The  others 
nodded,  wordless  with  wonder. 
Then  the  inspector  said,  “Chick- 
ens?” 

“Where,”  I said,  “do  you  think 
I got  the  eggs?” 

The  little  man  alongside  the  in- 

108 


spector  came  to  life.  In  three  dex- 
trous movements  he  had  glasses  on, 
a notebook  in  his  hand,  and  stylus 
poised.  “What  do  you  feed  them?” 
he  inquired  eagerly. 

“Seeds,”  I said,  “insects,  chopped 
up  garter  snakes,  mussels,  ground 
up  oyster  shells.  You  boys  have  all 
the  grain.” 

There  was  an  excited  light  in  the 
little  man’s  eyes.  He  hurried  out  to 
a broken  down  shed  to  examine  the 
chickens. 

That  left  two  of  them.  The  in- 
spector continued  to  gaze  at  the  re- 
mains on  the  plate  in  a dreamy 
way.  The  other  man  straightened 
his  big  shoulders,  looked  at  me,  and 
said,  jerking  his  thumb  toward  the 
shed,  “Mr.  Garter’s  an  ecologist.  He 
just  came  along  for  the  trip.  He’s 
on  his  way  to  the  Government  Ex- 
perimental Farm  over  at  Murdock. 
I’m  a government  sociologist.  I was 
sent  here  to  have  a talk  with  you. 
My  name  is  Ranson.” 

“Sure.  Sit  down.  I guess  I’m 
licked,  but  there’s  no  use  making 
a rumpus  about  it.” 

I turned  to  the  inspector  whose 
eyes  were  still  caught  in  the  egg 
plate.  I said,  “Ever  taste  them?” 
“Once,”  he  said,  in  a far  away 
voice.  I went  to  the  cupboard  and 
came  back  with  a paper  bag  full  of 
eggs  and  put  it  in  his  hands.  He 
held  them  as  if  someone  had  just 
given  him  the  wheat  sheaf  badge  of 
merit. 

“I  won’t  be  needing  these  after 
our  little  talk,  I expect.  Take  them 
home  to  the  kiddies.” 

He  smiled,  looked  at  the  sociol- 
ogists, who  grinned  back  and 
nodded.  The  inspector  walked  very 

VARLEY  LANG 


carefully  out  of  the  back  door  and 
down  to  the  wharf  to  stow  his  eggs 
in  the  helicopter. 

Ranson  shifted  in  his  chair.  He 
said,  “That  was  very  nice  of  you, 
Mr.  Henry.” 

“George,”  I said. 

“Against  the  law,  of  course.” 
There  was  a smile  around  his  eyes. 
“Are  you  against  the  law,  George?” 
“Yes.  No  use  bluffing.  You  know 
the  story.  All  the  waters  and  every- 
thing in  them  are  WFI.  All  the  land 
and  everything  on  it.  I don’t  like 
packaged  food.  I like  real  food.  I 
don’t  like  my  oysters,  crabs,  clams, 
fish  minced  up  and  blended  with 
chick  weed,  cereals,  yeast,  algae, 
plankton,  and  flavored  to  taste  a 
little  like  steak.  And  plenty  of  others 
feel  the  same.  I have  a market.” 
“An  illegal  market.” 

“Yes,”  I said.  “By  God,  if  you 
had  told  my  father,  before  I was 
born,  that  the  oysters  he  tonged 
could  not  be  eaten  as  oysters,  he’d 
have  laughed  in  your  face.  And  if 
you  had  told  him  he  wouldn’t  even 
be  allowed  to  tong  them,  he’d  have 
cussed  you  good  and  proper!” 
“People  have  to  be  fed.  The  only 
way  we  can  do  it  is  to  combine  the 
total  food  resources  of  the  world, 
process  and  package  them,  and  do  it 
as  efficiently  as  possible.  That  means 
absolute  control  of  all  food  sources 
and  their  harvesting.  You  could 
work  for  WFI,^  George.  It  would  be 
important  work.” 

“I  know.  It’s  so  important  noth- 
ing else  gets  done.  Have  you  seen 
the  roads  around  here?  Half  the 
bridges  are  down  across  Charles 
Neck  and  Walter  Hook.  You  can’t 
get  gas.  You  can’t  get  telephones, 

ECOLOGY  ON  ROLLINS  ISLAND 


and  if  you  happen  to  have  one,  it 
doesn’t  work  half  the  time.  And  the 
busses  don’t  run  any  more.  And — ” 

Ranson  held  up  his  hand.  “It’s 
an  emergency,  George.  You  have 
to  realize  that.  It’s  been  building  up 
for  a long  time,  long  before  your 
father  worked  the  oyster  beds  in 
Murdock  Sound.” 

“There’s  another  thing,”  I said. 
“Before  you  fellows  closed  the 
Sound,  I was  independent.  I had 
my  own  boat  and  I made  my  own 
way.  Now  you  put  your  WFI  scoops 
in  the  Sound  and  the  whole  job  is 
done  in  a month  or  two.  And  who 
are  the  watermen?  A couple  of 
clerks  to  every  scoop  who  turn  a 
valve  every  once  in  a while  and 
draw  their  packaged  food,  clothing, 
and  entertainment  once  a week.  Do 
you  call  that  a job?  Why,  those  food 
clerks  couldn’t  even  lift  a pair  of 
thirty  foot  rakes,  let  alone  tong  with 
them.” 

“We  get  more  oysters,  George, 
and  in  less  time,  and  we  do  it 
scientifically.” 

Ranson  tapped  his  notebook  with 
the  stylus  and  he  looked  out  of  the 
kitchen  window.  He  was  giving  me 
time  to  cool  off.  He’d  been  kind  and 
patient  when  he  didn’t  have  to  be 
either.  With  his  job  he  had  no  time 
to  sit  and  reason  with  a one  man 
resistance  movement.  He  had  no 
time  for  anything  but  food,  and 
organizing  society  to  keep  it  grub- 
bing incessantly  for  food,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  to  keep  society  as 
orderly  and  contented  as  possible.  I 
was  not  orderly  and  I was  not  con- 
tented. But  I was  just  one  man,  not 
society.  I cooled  off. 

I said,  “Look,  Ranson.  It’s  like 

109 


this.  I know  you’re  right.  I’ve  had 
a look  around,  and  I’ve  thought 
about  it  some.  The  figures  are  with 
you : too  many  men  and  not  enough 
food.  Only  thing  is,  even  from  your 
point  of  view,  I’m  not  fit  for  WFI. 
I have  to  be  on  my  own.  There 
ought  to  be  somewhere,  someplace 
for  a man,  instead  of  a food  clerk 
— ” I trailed  off  unhappily. 

“I’m  afraid  you  have  no  alter- 
native, George.  You  are  a criminal 
in  the  eyes  of  the  WFI.  Either  you 
will  work  for  WFI  or  you  will  be 
punished.”  He  paused. 

“I  won’t  work  for  them.” 

Garter,  the  ecologist,  burst  in  at 
the  door,  slammed  his  gloves  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  table. 
“Ranson,  you  never  saw  anything 
like  it.  Fifty  in  the  flock,  two  roost- 
ers, all  in  fine  shape.  Lice  of  course, 
some  bone  malformation  in  the  legs. 
But  healthy.” 

He  began  to  ask  me  dozens  of 
questions,  but  Ransom  interrupted. 

“I  need  your  help.  Carter,  and 
time’s  wasting.  Among  other  dep- 
redations, George  Henry,  here,  has 
been  robbing  government  oyster 
beds,  trapping  government  crabs, 
netting  government  fish,  presum- 
ably at  night  I needn’t  add  that  he 
has  a ready  and  lucrative  market. 
In  effect,  he  refuses  to  cease  his 
depredations,  he  refuses  to  join  the 
WFI,  and  he  is  generally  uncooper- 
ative.” 

Garter  said,  “uncooperative,”  in 
an  absent  way.  He  dragged  his  mind 
away  from  a flock  of  fifty  fowl  liv- 
ing in  a most  unusual  ecology,  nar- 
rowed his  eyes,  and  asked  a shrewd 
question. 

no 


“How  did  he  get  there?” 
“What?” 

“To  the  beds.” 

Ranson  said,  “Where  did  you  get 
the  gas,  George?” 

“I  didn’t.  Took  the  engine  out, 
put  in  a well  and  center-board, 
shipped  a mast,  and  rigged  her  for 
sail.  She’s  tucked  away  up  in 
Marshwater  Greek.” 

They  were  astounded.  Nobody 
had  sailed  pleasure  craft  for  a gen- 
eration: no  leisure  and  no  money 
for  such  a waste  of  time;  and  sail 
craft  were  too  inefl&cient  for  food 
collecting. 

“My  God,  George,”  Ranson  said, 
“you’re  a living  anachronism!” 
Carter  nodded.  He  adjusted  his 
glasses,  looked  at  me,  and  said 
quietly,  “He  is  also  an  able  man.” 
“His  abilities  will  be  largely 
wasted  in  a Penal  Food  Processing 
Plant,”  Ranson  said  grimly. 

“Oh,  I agree,  I agree.”  Garter 
nodded  his  head  emphatically. 
“The  wrong  environment  entirely. 
No  scope.  No  initiative.”  He  gave 
me  a glance  of  understanding  that 
warmed  me  right  through  and  also 
had  the  unfortunate  effect  of  taking 
some  of  the  starch  out  of  me.  I had 
been  prepared  for  hostility  and  in- 
difference. I stood  up  and  walked 
to  the  sink  for  a glass  of  water  I 
didn’t  want. 

“Now,”  Carter  said,  talking  to 
Ranson,  “you  take  the  way  he 
walks.  Notice  how  he  swings  his 
arms,  with  his  hands  a little  for- 
ward, as  if  ready  to  grip,  and  the 
tilt  of  his  head,  alert,  watchful.  You 
don’t  see  that  often.  Different  atti- 
tude, different  environment.” 
Ranson  sighed.  “Get  down  to 

VARLEY  LANG 


business.” 

“Yes.  There’s  always  this  terrible 
lack  of  manpower,  machine  power, 
everything,  all  swallowed  up  in 
food.  And  besides,  the  men  can’t 
stand  those  bird  stations.  Too 
lonely.  Can’t  meet  an  emergency. 
Four  of  them  died  on  Rollins  Is- 
land three  winters  ago  when  the 
power  plant  failed.  Just  sat  there 
and  froze.  Terrible  thing.  Had  to 
install  emergency  two-way  radios; 
need  the  equipment  elsewhere.” 
“They  died  of  loneliness,  if  you 
ask  me,”  Ranson  said. 

Carter  nodded.  “And  no  gas  a- 
vailable  for  boat  inspection.  Heli- 
copter too  wasteful  for  a single 
station.  Put  George  out  there  with 
one  or  two  others.  Could  you  sail 
out?  Seaworthy?  Big  enough?” 

I said  yes. 

“Good.  Food  processing  all  done 
by  machines.  Just  feed  birds  in. 
Take  up  to  half  the  colony  of  young 
birds  when  bred,  half  the  old  ones 
when  coming  to  nest.  Regular  in- 
spection of  tern  colonies  by  sail, 
your  boat.  Helicopter  lands  June 
twenty,  small  freighter  in  July  to 
load  processed  birds  in  Rollins  Har- 
bor. Just  the  thing.” 

He  took  off  his  glasses  to  show 
that  the  problem  had  been  solved. 

“Look,”  Ranson  said.  “I  don’t 
have  anything  against  George  per- 
sonally. I want  him  to  be  useful  and 
contented.  If  he  can’t  be  contented, 
then  at  least  I want  him  to  be  use- 
ful, instead  of  wasteful.  Robbing 
government  food  resources  is  a 
^ave  offense,  but  even  that  doesn’t 
justify  putting  him  down  in  the 
middle  of  a pile  of  excrement  where 
no  ordinary  man  can  breath  for 

ECOLOGY  ON  ROLLINS  ISLAND 


more  than  a few  minutes  without 
stifling.” 

“Healthy,”  Carter  said.  “Healthy. 
It  does  stink.  That’s  one  reason  we 
have  such  trouble  keeping  the  sta- 
tions manned.” 

“Boys,”  I said.  “What  is  this  pile 
of  dung  I’m  supposed  to  sit  on? 
And  what  birds?  And  why?” 

Carter  explained.  In  the  desper- 
ate search  for  food,  the  sea  birds 
were  now  being  subjected  to  an  an- 
nual harvest.  From  various  nesting 
places  along  all  the  ocean  coasts  in 
the  world,  birds  were  harvested,  to 
say  nothing  of  their  eggs,  in  large 
numbers.  It  was  simply  a matter  of 
catching  and  killing  the  birds,  gath- 
ering their  eggs,  and  feeding  the 
processing  hoppers  with  same. 
These  foods  were  later  shipped  to 
Food  Processing  Plants  to  be 
added  to  other  harvests  and  pack- 
aged for  consumption.  In  some 
cases,  more  specialized  processing 
was  necessary,  as  with  the  fulmars 
on  Rollins  Island.  The  fulmars  were 
much  prized  because  their  alimen- 
tary system  contained  an  especially 
stinking  oil  rich  in  fat  and  vitamin 
A.  In  their  case,  no  eggs  were  col- 
lected, since  they  bred  only  once 
in  a season,  and  the  birds  were 
separately  processed  to  retrieve  the 
oil. 

Literally  millions  of  sea  birds  and 
their  eggs  were  cropped  yearly  from 
nesting  sites  on  the  east  coast  of 
North  America  alone.  It  was  a 
regular  and  assured  source  of  food 
on  an  enormous  scale  the  world 
over.  The  thousands  of  tons  of  ex- 
crement were  also  gathered  every 
five  years  to  be  used  in  food  pro- 
cessing and  in  agriculture.  It  was 

in 


the  policy  of  the  WFI  to  waste 
nothing  and  to  use  everything. 

The  cropping  of  the  young  birds 
took  place  in  the  spring  and  early 
summer,  depending  on  the  species. 
The  adult  birds  were  trapped  by 
various  devices  when  they  returned 
to  their  nests.  Over-cropping  was 
carefully  avoided  to  insure  a steady 
annual  production, 

“If  it’s  the  island  or  a Penal  Food 
Plant,  I’ll  take  the  island.  I’m  a 
waterman,  not  a bird  collector.  At 
least  I’ll  get  a chapce  to  use  the 
boat  once  in  a while.” 

Both  the  WFI  men  looked  re- 
lieved. Then  Ranson  put  a ques- 
tion. 

“Do  you  know  of  anyone  eke 
around  here  who  might  be  fitted  for 
such  work?  I’m  not  asking  you  to 
inform.  I know  there’s  been  a good 
deal  of  discontent  in  this  Sound 
region,  which  is  one  reason  why  I’m 
here.  The  island  may  be  a solution 
for  other  misfits  as  well.” 

I thought  it  over.  “The  Jackson 
boys  aren’t  very  happy.  They  were 
the  best  men  with  drift  nets  this 
Sound  has  ever  seen.  Now  they  sit 
on  stools  all  day  long  and  watch  a 
row  of  bottles  pass  in  front  of  lights. 
Once  in  a while  they  lift  a bottle 
out  of  the  line  and  put  it  aside. 
They  get  very  drunk  every  night  on 
some  stuff  they  make  out  of  berries 
and  dandelions  from  the  marsh.” 
Ranson  sighed.  Carter  again 
passed  a warming  look  of  complete 
understanding,  and  nodded  en- 
couragement. 

“Then  there’s  Pete  Younger.  He 
was  a trapper  before  WFI  closed 
the  muskrat  areas.  He  turns  a valve 
several  hundred  times  a day  in  the 

112 


Small  Fish  Processor.  He  oils  his 
traps  and  talks  to  himself.  He  may 
be  too  far  gone.  I think  he  is.” 
“Anyone  else?” 

“Others.  But  the  WFI  has  a 
bight  on  them  for  good,  I guess. 
They  were  men,  once.” 

“Are  the  Jackson  men  married?” 
I smiled.  “No.  We’re  dying  out.” 
Garter  chuckled. 


IT  WAS  a twenty-five  mile  sail  to 
Rollins  Island.  The  Jackson  boys 
and  I loaded  the  boat  with  clothing 
mostly.  Food  was  stored  on  the  is- 
land. I took  along  four  pairs  of 
oyster  rakes,  I didn’t  have  the  heart 
to  leave  them  behind.  And  Bill  and 
Joy  took  a huge  ball  of  linen  twine, 
ropes,  corks,  rings,  all  the  makings 
for  a drift  net. 

Unexpectedly,  Carter  showed  up 
at  the  last  minute  by  helicopter  to 
see  us  off.  He  jumped  up  on  the 
wharf  smiling. 

“About  those  chickens,”  he  said, 
“they’re  condemned  stock  of  course. 
Better  take  them  along.  And  keep 
an  eye  on  them.  Want  to  know  how 
they  make  out  in  a new  environ- 
ment.” 

Then  he  took  me  aside  and 
handed  me  a small  book. 

“Lot  of  information  in  this.  Writ- 
ten by  a small  animal  ecologist. 
Read  it.  Read  it  carefully.  Think 
about  it.  Read  it  again,  and  think 
some  more.  Got  that?” 

I said,  “Sure.  I’ll  read  it.”  I had 
the  notion  he  was  trying  to  get 
something  over  without  actually 
coming  out  with  it  flat,  so  I listened 
carefully. 

He  paused  for  a while,  wiping 
VARLEY  LANG 


his  glasses  and  pursing  his  lips. 

“That  island’s  not  right  for  ful- 
mars and  gannets.  Wrong  environ- 
ment. Never  have  multiplied  as  they 
should.  Whole  thing  should  be  con- 
centrated north.  Plenty  of  cliff  sites 
north.  None  here.  Won’t  do.  Terns, 
yes.  Fulmars  and  gannets,  no. 
Trouble  is,  WFI  is  tenacious.  Stu- 
pidly so.  It  works,  they  say.  I tell 
them  it  works  badly.  It’s  going  to 
take  a lot  to  move  them : total  fail- 
ure of  a colony  or  two. 

“You’re  intelligent,  George.  Put 
two  and  two  together.  Wish  you 
luck.” 

He  shook  my  hand  quickly  and 
jumped  into  the  helicopter.  Bill  and 
Joy  had  to  call  me  twice  before  I 
could  come  out  of  a trance  of  be- 
wildered speculation.  In  a daze  I 
helped  the  boys  load  our  last  piece 
of  equipment:  a huge  barrel  of 
salt  they  had  pilfered  from  the  local 
Food  Plant. 


The  island  is  big,  about  five 
by  fifteen  miles,  and  it  must 
have  been  a fine  piece  of  land.  It 
still  was,  even  though  mucked  ev- 
erywhere with  white-to-greenish 
bird  dung.  There  were  steep  hills 
on  the  mainland  side,  marshes  to 
seaward,  and  in  the  middle  natural 
meadowland  broken  by  woods  con- 
taining pine,  and  some  beech  and 
maple.  We  moored  in  a small  but 
fairly  deep  harbor  at  a wharf  for 
loading  foods.  Our  barracks  stood 
just  off  the  wharf.  In  addition  to  all 
the  necessities,  there  was  a two-way 
radio,  marked  “Use  in  emergency 
only”,  and  a handbook  with  infor- 
mation on  approximate  numbers  of 

ECOLOGY  ON  ROLLINS  ISLAND 


birds  to  be  taken,  locations  of  nest- 
ing sites,  and  so  on.  Equipment,  in- 
cluding snares  and  nets,  was  stored 
in  an  equipment  room.  And  there 
was  a storeroom  containing  pack- 
aged foods,  no  freezing  or  cooling 
necessary  for  preservation. 

Behind  the  barracks  stood  a 
warehouse  for  storing  processed 
birds,  and  a shop  with  the  proces- 
sors themselves.  Everything  looked 
orderly  and  efficient.  A small  plant 
supplied  us  with  light  and  heat 
and  power  for  the  machines. 

We  arrived  in  November.  By  De- 
cember, the  first  sea  birds  began  to 
return  to  their  nesting  sites,  a few 
at  a time.  Soon  we  were  so  busy 
snagging  them  as  they  came  to  land 
that  we  had  little  time  for  anything 
but  work  and  sleep.  Even  so.  Bill 
took  the  time  to  salt  several  dozens 
of  gannets  and  fulmars  for  future 
eating,  and  he  was  looking  forward 
to  the  eggs. 

Spring  and  early  summer  soon 
rolled  around,  and  we  were  collect- 
ing young  birds,  the  nestlings.  So 
it  went. 

I can’t  say  any  of  us  liked  the 
work.  For  one  thing  we  all  sickened 
of  the  endless  slaughter.  For  an- 
other, the  stench  and  dirt  were 
overwhelming.  The  island  should 
have  been  a fine  place  for  living. 
There  were  sheltered  spots  for 
houses,  a small  harbor,  woodlots, 
meadows  for  cattle  and  pigs,  some 
bottom  land  for  food  crops,  the 
sea  for  fish — a fine  location;  but 
it  was  ruined  by  birds.  It  was  a 
slimy,  stinking  hell. 

The  birds  flew  everywhere  in 
huge  flocks,  especially  in  the  morn- 
ing when  the  gannets  and  fulmars 

113 


came  back  from  fishing  at  sea.  Ex- 
crement fell  from  the  sky  like  a 
stinking  sleet.  We  couldn’t  get  away 
from  the  smell  or  the  smell  away 
from  us.  It  was  in  our  clothing, 
hair,  under  our  fingernails.  No 
watermen  ever  washed  so  often  or 
so  thoroughly  as  we  did,  but  the 
stink  remained.  We  lost  weight  and 
appetite  steadily,  for  the  packaged 
fo^  tasted  of  excrement  soon  after 
it  was  opened,  or  seemed  to,  which 
is  just  as  bad. 

However,  by  the  end  of  June 
most  of  the  birds  had  left,  and  we 
had  our  helicopter  inspection.  The 
same  man  who  was  fascinated  by 
the  cold  remains  of  a couple  of  eggs 
in  my  kitchen  was  on  this  route, 
and  we  cooked  three  or  four  of  our 
chickens.  His  enormous  appetite 
sharpened  ours,  and  we  had  a 
feast.  He  was  almost  tearfully  grate- 
ful. By  July,  the  freighter  had  put 
in,  loaded,  and  left.  For  the  first 
time  in  many  months,  we  were  un- 
occupied. 

Bill  and  Joy  immediately  set 
about  knitting  a large  drift  net. 
They  were  happily  excited  at  the 
prospect  of  gilling  large  numbers 
of  government  fish.  As  for  me,  I sat 
down  to  read  a book  on  small  an- 
imal ecology. 

I read  that  book  through  three 
times.  I kept  at  it  night  and  day, 
and  it  was  the  hardest  work  I’ve 
ever  done,  because  I wasn’t  read- 
ing just  to  pass  the  time.  There  was 
a message  in  that  book,  I was  sure 
of  it,  a message  from  Carter,  a man 
I liked  and  trusted. 

By  the  time  I began  to  get  a 
glimmering  of  an  idea  as  to  what 
Garter’s  message  was,  the  boys  had 

114 


their  net  knitted  and  hung.  I went 
back  to  the  book  to  find  out  what 
to  do  about  this  idea,  and  the  boys 
sailed  out  to  drift  the  net.  I waited 
for  them  in  a sweat  of  impatience. 
They  came  back  at  dawn  the  next 
day  with  a boat  load  of  food  fish.  I 
met  them  at  the  wharf. 

“Bill,”  I said,  “what  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  with  that  load  of  fish?” 
Bill  looked  at  the  fish.  He  said 
with  slow  and  tremendous  satisfac- 
tion, “I  aim  to  eat  them  fish, 
George  Henry.” 

“Bill,”  I said,  “not  even  you  can 
eat  all  those  fish.  I’ve  got  a scheme. 
Save  back  some  of  the  fish,  sure.  Let 
Joy  smoke  a few  even.  But  take 
the  rest  into  Murdock  tonight  and 
sell  them  to  Hornsby.  He  used  to 
buy  my  oysters.  He’ll  buy  your  fish.” 
“What  for?”  Bill  asked. 

“Get  some  bootleg  gin,”  I said. 
“That  makes  sense.  What  else?” 
“Rats,”  I said.  “I  want  rats.  Buy 
some  traps  or  get  Pete  Younger  to 
make  some.  Not  muskrats.  Bam 
rats.  As  many  as  you  can  catch.” 
“Fish,”  Bill  said.  “Fish  for  rats. 
Boy,  the  birds  has  got  you.” 

He  gave  in  after  a while,  more 
to  keep  me  good  natured  than  for 
any  other  reason,  that  and  the  gin. 
He  came  back  with  two  dozen  live, 
healthy  specimens,  and  watched 
with  an  open  mouth  as  I let  them 
loose. 


The  months  passed,  and  I 

was  worried.  To  drive  the  prob- 
lem from  my  head,  I took  the  boat 
out  and  surveyed  the  shallow  waters 
off  the  island.  I found  something. 
I found  a bed  of  oysters  in  broken 

VARLEY  LANG 


rock,  a bed  not  marked  on  WFI 
charts,  because  you  could  see  it 
hadn’t  been  worked  for  a long 
time.  Later,  I located  clam  beds 
on  the  marshy  side  of  the  island. 
The  damn  place  was  a paradise,  or 
might  be,  once  those  birds  were 
cut  down,  but  I couldn’t  eliminate 
them  by  sheer  slaughter  because  of 
the  WFI. 

There  didn’t  seem  to  be  many 
rats  around.  December  came  and 
all  the  filthy,  stinking  work  with 
it,  and  still  no  rats.  Once  in  a while, 
eggs  would  be  missing  from  occu- 
pied nests,  and  that  was  all.  Gulls 
could  have  gotten  those.  We  toiled 
through  stinking  February,  foul 
March,  odiferous  April,  and  evil- 
smelling May.  Still  no  rats. 

I sent  Bill  back  to  the  mainland 
for  more;  and  by  September,  rats 
were  everywhere.  Bill  looked  at  me 
from  his  bunk  one  night  and  said, 
“I  hope  you’re  satisfied.” 

I was  more  than  that.  I was  ter- 
rified. They  absolutely  swarmed. 
It  was  impossible  to  wdk  from  the 
barracks  to  the  boat  at  mid-day 
without  having  to  kick  rats  off  the 
path.  They  consumed  most  of  the 
non-metallic  gear  in  the  boat,  in- 
cluding the  sail.  So  far,  they  hadn’t 
gnawed  a way  into  our  barracks 
store  room,  or  we’d  have  literally 
starved  to  death. 

“Boys,”  I said,  “just  sit  tight. 
Wait  till  December.  These  rats  are 
the  best  friends  you  ever  had. 
They’re  going  to  make  this  island 
livable.  No  more  stink  and  stench.” 

“What,”  said  Bill,  “are  you  go- 
ing to  do  with  the  rats  when  the 
birds  are  gone?” 

Joy  merely  moaned. 

ECOLOGY  ON  ROLLINS  ISLAND 


“We’ll  kill  them.” 

“If  they  don’t  get  us  first,”  Bill 
said. 

It  was  an  awesome  and  bloody 
slaughter.  The  fulmars  and  gannets, 
most  of  the  gulls,  some  of  the  terns, 
were  either  wiped  out  or  harried 
off  the  island  in  a single  season. 
And  the  island  became  a heaving, 
moving,  revolting  mass  of  rats,  and 
nothing  but  rats.  They  attacked  us 
on  sight,  from  sheer  hunger.  Not  a 
blade  of  grass  grew  anywhere  on 
the  island,  and  rats  are  not  grass 
eaters  as  an  ordinary  thing.  There 
was  one  hopeful  sign.  They  were 
beginning  to  eat  each  other. 

Day  after  day  we  were  caged  in 
our  barracks.  The  constant  squeal- 
ing and  scratching  under  the  bar- 
racks was  bad  enough.  What  made 
us  desperate  was  the  fact  that  they 
had  gnawed  a way  into  the  store 
room  and  most  of  the  packaged 
food  was  gone.  We  still  had  some 
smoked  fish  hung  on  the  rafters, 
and  a few  salted  fulmars  in  the 
barrel,  but  that  was  all.  It  was  then 
that  we  remembered  the  two-way 
radio,  marked  “Use  in  emergency 
only”.  Bill  said,  after  weighing  all 
the  evidence  coolly  and  carefully, 
that  this  here,  in  his  opinion,  was 
an  emergency. 

I got  WFI  mainland  and  finally 
persuaded  them  to  put  me  in  touch 
with  Carter,  Bird  Stations  Ecolo- 
gist. I told  him  we  were  having 
a little  trouble  with  the  genus  Rat- 
tus,  and  would  he,  for  God’s  sake, 
do  something  about  it,  quick.  I can 
still  near  him  laughing.  It  was  a 
while  before  he  could  speak  at  all. 

“Keep  them  at  bay,  general.  I’ll 
be  over  early  tomorrow  morning.” 

115 


I don’t  believe  any  men  have 
ever  been  so  happy  to  see  Carter  as 
we  were. 

“They’ll  balance,”  he  said. 
“Starvation  will  do  its  work.  I’ve 
brought  along  a couple  of  pairs  of 
bam  owls.  They’ll  help  a lot.  I see 
you  read  that  ecology  book.  Good 
job.  Station  virtually  wiped  out. 
I’m  sending  supplies  over  in  a 
week’s  time.  Anybody  wants  to 
know,  you’re  supposed  to  be  help- 
ing extend  and  restore  the  tem  and 
gull  colonies.  Wouldn’t  be  a bad 
idea  to  try  a few  other  animal  ex- 
periments. Milder,  though.  Smaller 
scale.  Send  canvas  for  a sail  too.” 

He  was  gone  before  we  could 
answer.  The  small  freighter  put  in 
July  fifteenth.  She  had  no  cargo 
of  processed  birds  to  take  back,  of 
course.  The  captain  detailed  a few 
men  to  unload  our  supplies,  and 
we  helped  them  eagerly.  There  were 
six  calves  and  heifers,  two  cows  and 
a bull,  five  pigs,  one  boar  and  two 
sows,  several  dozen  hens  and  a 
rooster.  Best  of  all,  there  was  a 
big  case  containing  seeds : com, 
barley,  oats,  seed  potatoes,  melons, 
beets,  kale,  dozens  of  others.  A plow 
and  two  draught  horses,  mare  and 
stallion.  Several  pounds  of  rat  poi- 
son. A hand  forge  and  several  tons 
of  coke.  Iron.  A hundred  pounds  of 
linen  twine  for  nets,  as  well  as  ropes 
of  all  sizes.  Canvas.  Tools  of  all 
kinds.  A big  medical  kit. 


IN  A YEAR’S  time,  we  had  pros- 
pered. No  richer  land,  due  to  the 
bird  droppings,  was  ever  farmed. 
And  the  sandier  areas  could  be  de- 
pended upon  for  melons  and  other 

116 


crops  demanding  a lighter,  drier, 
and  not  so  rich  soil.  Not  only  that, 
but  we  were  five,  now,  instead  of 
three.  The  Jackson  boys  had  lured 
a couple  of  husky  girls  to  the  island 
in  the  boat.  The  boys  claimed  the 
women  fell  in  love  with  them.  I 
think  they  fell  in  love  with  the  is- 
land. 

This  fast  work  on  the  part  of  the 
Jacksons  seemed  a little  rash  to  me. 
I was  still  not  at  all  sure  we’d  be 
allowed  to  remain  and  enjoy  the 
work  we  had  done.  Several  times, 
I was  tempted  to  use  the  radio 
again,  but  decided  to  wait.  I’m  glad 
now  I did. 

In  August,  a little  more  than  a 
year  after  his  last  visit.  Carter  set 
his  helicopter  down  at  the  wharf 
again. 

After  lunch  in  the  barracks  of 
baked  fish,  fresh  milk,  potatoes, 
salad,  and  melons,  he  pushed  back 
his  chair  and  said,  “I  suppose 
you’ve  been  wondering.” 

“We’d  like  to  know,”  I said. 

He  nodded.  “The  mainland’s  go- 
ing to  pieces.  So  is  the  whole  world. 
It  isn’t  just  food.  We  can  still  pro- 
duce that.  Remember  what  you 
said  about  the  bad  roads,  bad  tele- 
phones? You  put  your  finger  on  it. 
So  much  manpower,  machinery, 
energy,  material  is  used  up  in  get- 
ting food  and  processing  it  and  dis- 
tributing it,  there  isn’t  enough  for 
other  things.  A tenth  of  the  world’s 
population  and  a quarter  of  its  total 
power  resources  go  into  processing 
plankton  alone.  We  are  literally  eat- 
ing ourselves  to  death.  Utilities  and 
services  are  breaking  down  rapidly. 
No  new  dwellings  of  any  kind  have 

VARLEY  LANG 


been  built  for  ten  yeairs  or  more. 
Oil  is  short,  cement,  iron,  steel, 
coal,  plastics,  wiring,  radios,  tele- 
phones, everything  is  in  short  sup- 
ply and  getting  shorter.  Transport 
is  staggering  to  a halt.” 

He  paused,  took  off  his  glasses, 
and  twirled  them  by  one  side  piece. 

“Many  of  us  saw  it  coming.  A 
few  decided  to  do  something.  We 
thought  there  should  be  undis- 
turbed nuclei,  a few  able  people 
with  ample  food  supplies.  You  are 
one  such  center.  There  are  others 
at  various  bird  stations  along  the 
coast.  You’ll  be  joined  shortly  by 
a few  more  people,  young  men  and 
women,  among  them  a trained 
nurse,  a doctor,  a skilled  carpenter, 
so  on.” 

Bill  cleared  his  throat. 

“What  you  said,  I guess  it  was 
all  around  me,  only  I never  seen  it, 
not  to  put  together.  Just  one  thing. 
The  manager  at  the  Food  Plant,  he 
used  to  stop  and  kid  me  about  all 
the  fish  I’d  stole  from  the  govern- 
ment in  my  time.  He  was  abraggin’ 
about  how  WFI  had  newer  and 
better  ways  of  gettin’  things  done, 
always  newer  and  better  every  year. 
How  come  they  couldn’t  keep 
caught  up?” 

“Bill,  those  new  techniques  that 
manager  talked  about  were  old 
stuff  a hundred,  two  hundred  years 
ago.  The  applications  are  new,  some 
of  them,  but  the  basic  ideas  are  old. 

“The  World  Food  Institute  drew 
off  all  the  scientific,  inventive  brains 
of  the  world,  and  put  them  to  chas- 
ing food.  No  time  for  basic  research, 
basic  development;  just  time  for 
tinkering  and  retinkering  old  ideas. 

ecology  on  ROLLINS  ISLAND 


Been  no  new  basic  idea  for  a couple 
of  centuries.  Too  much  need  for 
immediate,  practical  results.  The 
well  is  dry,  and  it  won’t  be  filled 
again  with  a reservoir  of  new,  big 
ideas,  not  in  our  time.  Been  living 
off  the  past;  and  the  present  has 
caught  up  with  us.” 

Before  Carter  left  the  island  to 
visit  the  other  stations,  I had  a 
chance  to  have  a talk  with  him. 

“Was  that  sociologist,  Ranson, 
in  on  this?” 

“No.  We  had  to  be  careful.  Still 
have  to  be.  Just  a few  of  us.  That’s 
why  the  loss  of  the  bird  colonies 
here  had  to  seem  natural,  or  at 
least  a natural  accident.  And  I had 
to  keep  clear  of  it.  You  can  see 
that.” 

“Garter,  what  happens  on  the 
mainland  when  things  break  up?” 

“Won’t  be  pretty.  Bad.  Very 
bad.” 

“For  example?” 

“You  read  the  ecology  book. 
What  happens  when  a species 
multiplies  beyond  its  ability  to  feed 
itself?” 

A dozen  new  Rollins  Islanders 
showed  up  a few  at  a time  in  Car- 
ter’s helicopter.  We’ve  been  work- 
ing and  waiting  a long  time  now, 
waiting  for  Garter  to  come  back. 
For  over  a year  now,  our  boat  hzis 
made  no  crossing  to  the  mainland. 
Last  night,  over  twenty-five  miles  of 
sea  in  clear  weather,  we  saw  the 
sky  lit  by  a great  fire. 

I haven’t  forgotten  those  rats.  I 
dream  about  them,  tearing  one  an- 
other with  bloody  fangs.  • • • 

117 


SCIEiilCE 


BRIEFS 


Defense  Department  officials  pre- 
dict an  intercontinental  guided 
missile,  carrying  an  atomic  war- 
head, that  can  flash  across  5,000 
miles  at  speeds  up  to  9,000  miles  an 
hour.  The  weapon  would  be  able 
to  hit  a target  area  with  a radius 
of  about  ten  miles,  be  ten  times  as 
accurate  as  a German  V-2,  have 
twenty-five  times  the  range.  Plans 
call  for  at  least  two  varieties  of  this 
intercontinental  missile:  1.  A bal- 
listic type  that  streaks  out  of  the 
atmosphere  like  an  artillery  shell  at 
more  than  12,000  feet  a second. 
2.  A jet-propelled  type  that  flies 
more  slowly,  but  can  be  more  ac- 
curately controlled  all  the  way  to 
the  target  and  will  be  able  to  steer 
itself  by  the  stars. 

Pointless,  balMess  writing  pens  are 
predicted  by  researchers  working 
on  new  writing  devices.  The  one 
now  under  development  has  a cone- 
like tip  made  of  sintered  metal — 
powdered  metal  partly  welded  to- 
gether. Tiny  capillary  holes  in  the 
tip  permit  a thick  ink  to  filter 
through  and  rub  off  on  the  writing 
surface.  The  pen  will  not  leak 
when  not  in  use,  nor  does  it  need 
to  be  ^aken  or  rolled  over  paper 
to  get  it  started  after  disuse.  A 


special  feeding  system  permits  all 
ink  to  be  consumed  before  another 
cartridge  is  needed. 

The  largest  saucer-like  radio  tele- 
scope in  the  United  States  will 
soon  be  under  construction  at  Har- 
vard University’s  Agassiz  Station 
Observatory.  The  great  “dish”, 
a steerable  parabolic  antenna  sixty 
feet  in  diameter,  will  be  used  to 
study  and  record  radio  radiation 
being  received  on  Earth  from  outer 
space.  Plans  also  include  a large 
radio  astronomy  observatory  from 
which  radio  waves  could  be 
bounced  off  Mars  and  other  planets 
as  well  as  the  sun. 

Patients  who  need  a blood-vessel 
transplant  will  grow  and  store  their 
own  when  animal  experiments  now 
in  progress  are  eventually  applied 
to  humans.  Since  the  body  tends  to 
resist  foreign  tissue,  person  to  person 
grafts  in  case  of  a damaged  aorta 
are  often  untenable.  The  latest 
solution  is  to  cut  a vein  to  the  size 
needed  in  the  patient’s  own  body 
and  fit  it  over  a plastic  rod.  It  is 
then  wrapped  in  muscle  tissue  and 
buried  in  the  thigh  muscle  where 
it  is  nourished  for  two  or  three 
weeks  until  a firm  tube  is  formed. 
When  the  v^sel  is  needed  for  graft-^ 
ing,  the  thigh  is  reopened,  the 
plastic  rod  removed,  and  the  fresh- 
ly elastic  vein  hooked  into  the  aorta 
to  replace  the  defective  segment. 

Future  Motorists  will  drive  on  high- 
ways that  will  help  steer  the  cars 
and  on  which  the  dips  and  curves 
cannot  be  felt.  Highway  engineers 
predict  that  “pavement  geometry” 


can  be  used  to  bank  curves  so  that 
a blindfolded  person  riding  beside 
the  driver  would  never  know  of  the 
change  of  direction  after  going 
around  such  a curve.  During  mo- 
mentary lapses  on  the  part  of  a 
motorist,  such  a highway  would  be 
able  to  “steer”  the  car  until  the 
driver  could  regain  control. 

Our  grandchildren's  children  will 
have  enough  raw  materials  and 
energy  resources  despite  gloomy 
predictions  to  the  contrary.  Recent 
scientific  reports  indicate  that  new 
methods  of  utilization  of  minerals, 
a curbing  of  waste,  discoveries  of 
new  deposits  and  the  substitution  of 
common  rock  and  ceramics  are 
enough  to  quench  any  long  range 
predictions  of  a raw  material  short- 
age. The  harnessing  of  solar  energy 
through  new  discoveries  in  photo- 
synthesis, atomic  reactors  and  the 
direct  generation  of  electricity  in 
transistor  types  of  photovoltaic  cells 
also  promise  a supply  of  energy  far 
in  excess  of  the  demand  even  if 
coal,  gas  and  petroleum,  to  which 
our  civilization  is  now  geared, 
should  be  exhausted. 

Science  and  industry  have  caught 
up  with  fictioneers  again.  The  latest 
thing  in  bedding  is  a gyrating  mat- 
tress, set  into  motion  by  a small 
motor  in  the  foot  of  the  bed.  De- 
signed to  overcome  insomnia  by 
lulling  the  bed’s  occupant  to  sleep, 
the  “rock-a-by-bed”  is  the  actual 
development  of  an  idea  that  science 
fiction  writers  have  been  using  as 
standard  equipment  in  their  “homes 


of  the  future”  for  many  years. 

A new  profession — that  of  crimi- 
nalist— may  be  what  all  little  boys 
will  aspire  to  be  before  many  more 
years  roll  by.  Such  a criminalist 
will  be  a specialist,  but  not  in  any 
one  field.  He  will  have  to  qualify 
as  an  expert  in  identity,  evidence 
of  different  kinds,  from  blood 
groups  to  ink — from  textiles  to 
metals — from  vegetation  to  soil.  In 
addition  he  will  be  well  versed  in 
the  understanding  of  the  practical 
side  of  crime  investigation  and  legal 
requirements  of  courts  and  evi- 
dence. Like  a physician,  a crimi- 
nalist will  begin  training  with  a 
broad  knowledge  of  science,  on  this 
he  must  build  a study  of  micro- 
scopy, microchemistry,  law  and  any 
other  off-branches  concerned. 
Training  will  require  a minimum 
of  five  years  of  college  study  which 
closely  parallels  that  of  pre-medical 
students. 

Blind  persons  someday  may  be  able 
to  walk  with  certainty  through  un- 
familiar territory  without  the  aid 
of  seeing  eye  dogs  or  canes.  Scien- 
tists and  researchers  have  revealed 
a new  electron  device  to  warn 
blind  users  of  obstacles  and  poten- 
tial hazards,  such  as  curbs  and 
lampposts.  Carried  like  a lunch  pail, 
the  device  shoots  out  a beam  of  light 
that  is  reflected  by  such  obstacles. 
The  reflected  light  is  then  picked 
up  by  a built-in  optical  reception 
system  and  a vibrator  in  the  handle 
translates  the  reflections  into  warn- 
ings or  reassurances  for  the  user. 


119 


THE  PATRIOT  (Continued  from  page  205) 


prohibited  on  Earth  for  a decade 
— yet  they  listened.  The  censors, 
shocked,  galvanized,  started  to  act, 
to  cut  off  the  broadcast — and  could 
not.  The  powerful  music  had  crept 
insidiously  into  their  minds,  and 
their  fingers  were  paralyzed  above 
the  keys  while  The  Martianne 
flamed  triumphant  through  the  air 
of  Earth. 

When  the  final  note  had  died 
away,  Gomel  stood  up  at  his  piano 
and  said  into  the  microphones: 

“That  is  the  music  of  Mars.  Re- 
member it,  people  of  Earth.” 

It  was  a brief  trial.  Gomel  was 
admittedly  guilty  of  violating  the 
law  against  inciting  the  public  to 
military  action,  but  because  of 
Meta’s  influence  and  the  temper 
of  the  people,  he  was  not  sentenced 
to  prison.  He  was  deported  to 
Mars,  freed  to  return  to  his  own 
people. 

Spurred  by  the  Mars  Gorpora- 
tion,  the  Earth  government  acted 
quickly.  The  Martianne  was  the 
most  dangerous  of  any  music  the 
psychosociologists  had  banned.  Its 
performance  was  prohibited  on 
pain  of  death,  possession  of  a tape 
of  it  was  punishable  by  fine  and  im- 
prisonment. 

But  too  many  tapes  had  been 


home-recorded  on  the  night  of 
Gomel’s  last  concert.  Too  many 
people  remembered  the  basic 
strains,  the  theme  of  The  Mar^ 
tianne.  Laws  could  not  confine  it. 
It  was  hummed,  at  first  secretly, 
then  openly  and  defiantly. 

And  too  many  people  had  hung 
on  every  televised  instant  of  Gor- 
nel’s  trial  and  had  heard  him  say, 
simply  and  earnestly,  why  he  had 
violated  the  laws  designed  to  pro- 
tect the  peace  of  Earth,  why  he  had 
willingly  endangered  his  life. 

“It  is  right  that  men  should  have 
peace,”  said  Gomel  on  the  witness 
stand,  “but  first,  it  is  right  that 
they  should  have  freedom.” 

At  first  secretly,  then  openly  and 
defiantly,  the  Friends  of  Mars  grew 
into  an  organization  that  poured 
the  contributions  of  the  people  of 
Earth  into  ships  and  guns  for  the 
free  people  of  Mars. 

Every  Martian  year  they  play  it 
formally  now,  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  signing  of  the  Mars  Gharter. 
In  solemn  ceremonies,  the  military 
band  of  Mars  plays  The  Martianne 
before  the  imposing  edifice  erected 
at  Gharax  by  Meta  Erosine  in 
memory  of  Gomel  Lorensse,  the 
patriot  who  died  in  action  during 
the  final  seige  of  Mars  Gity.  • • • 


WHAT  IS  YOUR  SCIENCE  I.Q.? 

ANSWERS:  1 — One  hundred.  2 — 59  percent.  3 — ^Valence.  4 — 
Hercules.  5 — Automation.  6 — Faculae.  7 — Gommon  salt.  8 — As- 
tronomical unit.  9 — 18,000.  10 — Isotopes.  11 — 6.6.  12 — Shorter. 
13 — Protons.  14 — 3949.99  miles.  15 — One  mile.  16 — Helium. 
17 — Away  from.  18 — 34. 


120 


^Continued  from  Back  Cover 


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